Gotham Underground: Rebus
by Gilliamesque
Summary: In a Gotham City not entirely unlike our own, the GCPD is beset by a series of murders committed by people who couldn't have committed them. Meanwhile, a recently reformed Edward Nygma finds life a lot more difficult when death traps and riddles aren't involved.
1. The White Room

(Author's Note: I'm not overly fond of this opening chapter, but I've decided to try and roll with it. Hopefully it's not overly detrimental to the experience.)

Hair combed. Tie straightened. Suit pressed. Shoes shined. Cane polished. Hat tilted. Hands washed. Teeth brushed. Stomach filled Yes. Yes, everything was right, everything was perfect, everything was ready. He was ready.

Time to do this.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" boomed the voice of Edward Nygma, as he burst through the door. "Please, no need to bow. It is only I: Edward Nygma, private investigator par excellence, here to help the poor and underprivileged boys in blue solve yet another in a seemingly endless series of crimes in this, Gotham City, Crime Capital of the World. Oh, Hub City likes to claim that _it_ is the greatest human cesspool on this side of the globe, but we know the score, am I right?

Detective Thomas Drexel, known to pretty much everyone in the Gotham law enforcement and law aversion communities as a fierce adherent to the hardboiled school of police work, managed to direct an expression of equal parts anger, disgust and bitterness towards the former super-criminal. Really (Nygma mused) he seemed like the kind of man who would go well with a cigar, but of course only 25 of the 9,925 GCPD employees that were smokers actually smoked cigars. Of those 25, only 2 had the rank of detective: Frank Bartlow and Harvey Bullock. Moderately intelligent, compared to the drek that normally infested that particular institution. A solid C+.

Lt. Maria Chen, in the GCPD's recent tradition of pairing senior officers with diametrically opposite junior officers, was all the short, friendly Asian woman that Drexel was most certainly not. A recent transfer from Opal City, if memory served, which meant she had at least a modicum of experience with costumed criminals, if only Gotham was just a place where people put on funny costumes to play grab-ass with the local vigilante. Attractive? Possibly, and her test scores at the police academy...yes, definite potential. Not that he had time for personal relationships, Edward was quick to remind himself, he was far too invested in his career at this point in time. Besides, having a female counterpart was _so_ passe.

Two police officers in an otherwise empty wasn't the best fanfare Edward Nygma ever had in his life, but he could make do.

"What are you doing here Riddler?" Drexel growled, practically spitting the words at him. "Here to confess, or are you running interference for one of the other Arkham freaks?"

"Now now, Detective Drexel, you know that I'm not the Riddler anymore, and I'm not engaged in any unsavory criminal activity. I'm a legitimate private investigator, here to lend my aid to the local constabulary on a case that's all. You can't blame a citizen of this amazing country for wanting to help his fellow man now can you?" He turned, tipped his emerald-green bowler to Chen. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Chen, I hope you're settling in alright. Moving to a new city is always a hectic process isn't it?"

Maria raised an eyebrow in confusion. "I don't remember telling you my name."

"My dear officer, this is Gotham City," Nygma replied, flashing a toothy grin, "Police business is everyone's business. As a crime-fighter myself I find it only natural to learn the names of the people I'll be working with." And their birthdates, addresses, bloodtypes, social security numbers…

"I don't care what you think you are, Riddler." Drexel growled. "This is a crime scene, which makes it official police business. Get the hell out of here or I'm hauling your ass in."

"Oh Detective, no need for that kind of talk. You boys in blue let _him_ and his ilk get all the credit and adoration for stopping Joker and Clayface, and what do you get in return? A whole bunch of legal red tape and some unknown, unnamed mentally unbalanced masked vigilante roaming your streets who thinks he's above the law. Whereas I have only the best interests of the people of Gotham at heart, and I'm fully willing and able to help the police in whatever capacity I can."

"Until you decide to plant a time bomb on the Gotham Metro so someone will pay attention to your little word games."

"Oh please, that bomb would have only affected 15% of Gotham's subway tunnels, maybe 20%. It wasn't even particularly hard anyway…"

Drexel started forward, one hand raised in a fist (was that the other hand going for his gun?), only to run into the arm of Lt. Chen, who had managed to maneuver her way between the two with impressive efficiency. For a split second, it seemed as if the detective had forgotten that his partner was even in the room, before he returned to normality.

"Sir, I know I don't have a lot of experience here, but there's no harm in just letting him look, is there? I mean, Batman and forensics has already been through here, you said yourself there probably wasn't much point to sticking around. If we keep an eye on him, I don't think he'll be much trouble."

"Yes, you should listen to her Drexel, she's got a point." Nygma said, stepping around the two officers and into the apartment proper. "Although he misplaced trust of bats leaves much to be desired. It's practically Gordon-esque."

"...Fine!. "Take your look and get out, freak. You got five minutes before I throw your ass out on the curb or out the window, it makes no difference to me." Drexel snapped, then rounded on Chen. "And don't think I'm not going to bring this up with Gordon, Officer Chen. I don't care if you moved here yesterday, I find you sticking up for these nutsos again and I'll make sure your badge doesn't follow your ass back to Opal. You understand me?"

"Yes sir." Maria replied, though her tone implied otherwise.

After fishing his pockets for a second, Nygma pulled out a tape recorder and, and checking and rechecking it, pressed a large black button and began speaking into it. "Alright, this is the record of Edward Nygma, case #001, 21st of June, victim's name is...Hey, Drexel, what's the victim's name again?"

"Piss off Riddler."

"So rude! I was just trying to get you in on the case, give you a sense of purpose and all that. Victim's name is Erica Yeager, 2nd wife of renowned real estate tycoon/racketeer/eyepatch aficionado Alex Yeager. Estranged wife, if the rumours hold true, and it would explain Mr. Yeager's absence. Unless of course Alex Yeager is the murderer, though there's no way to tell at this point in time."

He glanced over at the two officers, hoping for some confirmation. When he got none, he shrugged and went back to studying the room.

"Scene of the crime is an apartment, penthouse suite to be precise, located on the 28th floor of Thorne Towers, 36 Barr St., Coventry. A property with no connections to Alex Yeager, worth noting. Living room is quite spacious, as to be expected, with the leftmost side leading to the bedrooms and windows lining the rightmost and opposite walls, the latter opening up to a patio. Furniture is the standard sterile white cubist excretions one associates with a showroom floor rather than a living space. Either Ms. Yeager didn't spend enough time here to warrant a change in furniture, or she had a horrible taste in fashion. Possibly both."

Recorder still in hand, Nygma rushed over to the patio. With quick but determined actions, he examined the cobblestone floors, the chairs, the railing that, ideally, kept the apartment occupants from plunging to their deaths into a crowded city street, with a look of quiet concentration on his face After a moment, he began to speak again.

"Patio contains one marble counter, three chairs and one hot tub, complete with bar. Used. The patio overlooks the old Gotham Opera House, now known as the Gotham Performing Arts Center. No known connection at this time, but it's best to check the victim's and Alex Yeager's history with the building, if any. God knows how many times the 'disgruntled former employee' angle has come up over the years."

Pausing for a second, Nygma crouched down to examine the patio door. Opening it. Closing it. Jostling it slightly. When he seemed to be satisfied with the results, he stood up again.

"The patio door locks from the inside, and appears to be undamaged. Cursory examination of the lock shows no sign of forced entry, exactly like the front door. Given that, the placement of the apartment itself forcing a limited number of access points, and the lack of any broken windows, I am lead to several possible conclusions. One: the murderer had access to a key, forged or otherwise, that he procured from Ms. Yeager or a member of the hotel staff. Or the killer was hotel staff, but that seems far too...pedestrian. Two: The killer possessed abilities which allowed him or her to enter the apartment with affecting the doors or windows. The list is numerous, but limiting it to those who operate in Gotham...Basil Karlo is certainly a candidate increases the number of possible access points considerably. The man leaves residue everywhere though, so an analysis of any carpet, faucets and so on should be to determine that. Or three: the killer was someone Ms. Yeager knew, whom she intentionally let into her apartment. A friend perhaps, or something more... interesting? She is estranged from her husband after all, which could possibly make her murder a crime of passion. An outburst from an angry lover, or perhaps revenge from a unhappy husband? More investigation is, of course, required."

"Not bad." Officer Chen remarked, avoiding the glare radiating from Drexel's direction.

"No, not bad at all, Officer Chen," Nygma replied, "The best. Now, where's that corpse?"

Reluctantly, the two officers directed the private investigator to the main bedroom, where the body had been found. As Nygma had expected, while the actual living area had been spartan to say the least, the bedroom was definitely...lived in, with all the amenities that he assumed women desired where they slept. Pillows like oversized marshmallows, luxurious comforters, lush shag carpeting, all a gleaming snow white. Some sort of complex relating to purity, perhaps? Married women usually didn't buy penthouse suites under the noses of their husbands and not engage in extramarital affairs, he assumed (much, much too busy for relationships). By covering the room in white, she convinces herself on a subconscious level that she is blameless, justified even, in conducting these trysts. If her husband were more faithful, if he wasn't always engaged in business, etc., she wouldn't have to do the things she did. She is the one in the right, at least in her own mind. The next night there'd they be at some posh gala, all smiles and laughs, the quick little signs of affection when they know someone's watching, even though ol' One-Eye still smells of that Thai prostitute he was spending time with on the limo ride over. These organized crime types were so obsessed with projecting an air of normalcy for some reason, it just made no sense.

And then there was the blood.

Unlike some of his associates, Barton Mathis, Victor Zsasz, Waylon Jones, Edward Nygma had never had much interest in the human body, or as it tended to be, in corpses. There was no real depth to death, no artistry that he could see in working with a collection of organs wrapped in an oily bag of skin. It was the _mind_ that was interesting, the inherent _challenge_ in life-and-death that made the work (former work, he corrected himself) worthwhile, not the end result. But then the Riddler had always been about more than common burglary, killing sprees and controlling worthless pieces of territory like most of the rabble that had come to infest Gotham City over the years. It was about raising people out of their ignorance, it was about testing their minds, changing their perceptions. The fact that he had stolen some things, threatened a couple lives, was simply a means to an end, a way to shock the populace out of the intellectual coma they had put themselves in from rampant consumerism. But no, they didn't think, all they did was react! Because they couldn't afford their little tchotchkes, because they were slightly inconvenienced while sleepwalking through their pitiful lives, suddenly he was branded as insane, as a criminal, like they had any business telling him what to do! He was the one who was right, he knew what was for the best! And if it it hadn't been for _him_ -

"You done here, or should I bust your ass for loitering?" Drexel snapped.

"Hm? Ah, apologies." Nygma replied, then turned back to the crime scene. "Yes, well, with the body already taken away, it's hard to be exact, but someone with even a rudimentary knowledge of bloodstain pattern analysis could make a decent approximation of close attention Drexel, maybe you'll learn something for once."

Once more, Nygma pulled the tape recorder from his pocket and, stepping into the proper, began to speak:

"I have now made my way into the bedroom, where Ms. Yeager's body was discovered. Very white. The room, to be precise, white furniture, white paint, white carpet, white white white. Seems like even the well-to-do 'normals' of this city have their own idiosyncrasies, although what if anything Ms. Yeager's preferences had to do with her death it's hard to say. The most obvious theory at the moment, given the information I've gathered, is that Erica Yeager knew the person that murdered her, a least enough to let them into her apartment. She's a big name, or at least a rich one, so if she was trying to carry a boytoy off to her apartment there's got to be evidence of it. Hotel lobby is bound to have video footage. Additionally, where were the hired goons? Yeager is a typical mobster, it would make sense that he would have a degree of security around his loved ones, especially ones that get around. Better look into that."

"Anyway, from the traces of blood on the floor near the foot of the bed, I'd say that the killer struck her with a large object, most likely from behind, and then dropped it on the ground. Yeager fell forward and landed next to the nightstand, either dead or severely wounded, indicated by the pool of blood here. However, not content with simply shattering the back of this woman's skull, it seems the killer decided to take it a step further and decorate the room and walls with her blood. Typically, such drastic action would denote a strong emotional connection to the killing, for the victim or towards the act itself. Real serial killer type stuff. The work of an Arkham regular, or an amateur trying to break into the biz? Whoever it is, they definitely wanted people to know that Erica Yeager is dead in the most visually striking way possible. Are you a fan of Jackson Pollock by any chance, Ms. Chen?"

"That's Officer Chen, Mr. Nygma, and I believe you have what you wanted. Time to leave."

"Oh come on 'Officer', and here I thought you were going to be the cool cop! You really need to get out and have some fun, you know before you end up like Drexel here. I'd recommend the Iceberg Lounge, right next to the Cyrus Pinkney Museum. The guy at the door is a bit intimidating but just tell him Edward Nygma sent you, it'll be totally fine."

"Leave Riddler. Now!" Drexel barked.

"Oh relax Detective! I've more than proven myself haven't I? I can help you with the case, the GCPD can give me the thumb's up, maybe even take me on as a consultant, everyone wins right?"

A blink later, and suddenly the portly, middle-aged detective was far closer to Nygma than he would have liked, with his hand firmly locked onto the former criminal's neon green tie, forcing them to meet eye-to-eye. A bit intimidating, admittedly, but nothing Edward Nygma couldn't handle.

"Listen here you nutcase." Drexel's voice comes out like one of those swift harsh winter winds that rips through you without warning. "You enter a restricted crime scene, you insult an officer of the law, all to spout out the same crap we heard the Bat say hours ago. I don't care if you're reformed or trying to play to the long con, but if I see you around another crime scene - even if you're giving CPR to some old lady that was hit by drunk driver, I'm hauling your ass in. And trust me, you won't live long enough to have brunch with your buddies in that shithole they call a madhouse. Got it?"

"Sir, I think you're getting out of line h-"

"Do. You. Understand. Me?" Drexel yanked Nygma, the rank scent of tobacco and cheap beer heavy on his breath.

A nervous cough, once, twice. "Well, you don't have to tell me twice." Nygma mumbled. "I can tell when I'm not wanted."

With an almost animalistic growl Drexel pushed him away, almost knocking him into the blood-soaked bed of the former Mrs. Yeager. For a moment, Edward Nygma felt that same anger, the same rush of adrenaline he used to fell back in the old days, back before the world knew who he _really_ was, and then it was gone, filling him with a feeling of hollow misery that slowly spread through his body like a poison.

"I know cannibals that are better behaved than you." But his mouth felt dry, the words seemed ethereal. "Better watch that temper though de-tec-tive. Wouldn't want to end up like Lyle Bolton, would you? I hear he's just now regaining feelings in his extremities after Joker pushed him out that window."

Slowly, calmly, Nygma made his way to the front door, pausing only to tip his hat to Chen before exiting the room and quietly shutting the door behind him. Almost immediately, Officer Chen turned to face the impassive detective, an expression midway between outrage and incredulity on her face.

"Are you literally fucked in the head? I'm pretty sure regular police work doesn't involve death threats, whether they're criminals or not."

"Just doing my job Chen." Drexel replied,pulling out a fresh cigar. "Guys like the Riddler, Killer Croc, Joker - they ain't human. They're animals. Think like animals, act like animals. Soon as you understand that, you'll figure out how the system works around here."

"I don't think I want to."

"Give it time kid." The sharp strike of a match being lit, as Detective Drexel expelled a cloud of smoke into the defiled bedroom. "You'll see."


	2. An Evening at the Lounge

For a time, it was as if everything had faded away. The bloody white room. Drexel and Chen. Gotham City. Mom and dad. The Batman. Everything and everyone that made up Edward Nygma had faded away into nothingness, as his thoughts dissolved into a soporific haze. For the first time since he had left the Asylum, he didn't have to think about anything, didn't have to _feel_ anything, and it was so...peaceful.

A blink, and Edward found himself in the heart of the Bowery, walking down what he believed was Kane St. (and Edward Nygma was rarely wrong). He ordered a falafel from the Mediterranean restaurant on the corner, unconscious of the looks of fear and hatred from the people around him, looks that on any given day would have filled him with a deep sense of satisfaction, even glee. He picked at his meal a bit, not all that hungry after all as it turned out, then tossed it away and walked out.

Another blink, and Edward found himself walking towards Iceberg Lounge, the hottest (and coldest, as Oswald liked to say) nightclub on this side of Gotham. Originally a restaurant add-on to the long defunct Cyrus Pinkney Natural History Museum, the entire property had been bought and renovated by a young Oswald Cobblepot, recently returned from schooling in Britain. At the time, it was mostly used as a front for Cobblepot (who had adopted the moniker of the Penguin in reference to his rather avian features) and his gang's sordid criminal activities, particularly in the area of bird-and-umbrella-based thievery. In his prime the Penguin had a firm lock on every bit of illegal business on the South End; racketeering, arms dealing, blackmail/extortion, the works. Certainly not an easy feat, considering the sheer amount of bloodthirsty gangs and costumed vigilantes running about.

When Black Mask and the rest of the current power players in the Gotham Underground decided to step things up, Oswald decided to turn his attention to more legitimate ventures. Utilizing the morbid curiosity of the idle rich, which had been the catalyst for many an interesting tale in Gotham's history and the charisma that helped him control one of the biggest gangs in the city, the Penguin managed to turn the Lounge into a lunatic safari for the socialites of the city, for lack of a better term. Young assistant vice presidents, bank managers and playboy millionaires, eager to capture a glimpse of dregs of society (and maybe even one of those mysterious masked vigilantes) up close and personal. And, if the argument was raised of social negligence, one just had to point out the enormous educational, cultural and financial benefits of the Cyrus Pinkney (nèe Cobblepot) Natural History Museum on Gotham. Oswald Cobblepot was not an innocent man by any means, but he was the only man Edward Nygma knew who had managed to drag himself out of the hell that was life, and for that he had an enormous respect for the man.

Even if he wasn't _quite_ as intelligent as Nygma himself.

Standing in as bouncer this evening, quite obviously as a symbol of safety for incoming guests and a deterrent for any inhospitable ones, was one of the biggest men Edward Nygma had ever seen. Not biggest in terms of height, because there were several men, Waylon Jones, that Bane character, who edged him out in that era, but none of them quite so distinctly and so bluntly defined the idea of size the way this man did. It was as if someone had pushed a van upright and stretched a very sweaty leather sheet over it, and then dressed that sweaty van in an ill-fighting suit. Quite humorous, if he didn't look like he could crush a man's skull with one hand.

His alias, no one knew his real name as far as Nygma was aware, was Amygdala. Supposedly the name came as a result of a bit of experimental surgery he had been subjected to in the past, part of an attempt at somehow creating a super soldier by removing the Amygdala from the brain. The experiment (if there really was an experiment, as the whole thing seemed patently ridiculous) seemed to grant the recipient superhuman strength and endurance at the cost of uncontrollable bouts of rage and crippling memory deficiencies, which as it turned out is not the best combination of traits for people you operate on against their will. Here, now, with a steady job and steadier medication (generously provided by the Penguin), he was decent enough, but that had a tendency to change quickly and easily. People were still talking to this day about the time he threw a Volvo at the Condiment King for getting mustard on his tie.

"Stop right there." Amygdala grumbled as Nygma made his way to the door, his voice like standing next to a passing train. "Is your name on the list? No one gets in if there name ain't on the list."

"Myg, it's me. Edward Nygma. Mr. Cobblepot's friend, remember?"

For a few seconds the man's brow furrowed into a look of intense concentration (or confusion), as he wracked his tattered brain for information. Then, suddenly, a flash of recognition.

"Oh yeah! I remember you Mr. Riddler. Mr. Cobblepot told me that you can go in whenever you want, so you go ahead sir."

"Thanks, Myg, but it's not anymore, okay? It's Mr. Nygma now."

"Oh, right. Sorry Mr. Nygma sir, next time I won't forget." The gigantic doorman boomed in the most deferential tone he could manage.

Were Edward in a more vindictive mood, he might have pointed out that they had had this same conversation at least 10 times before, and each time it had ended the exact same way, with the exact same promise. Instead he gave a halfhearted wave, hoping it would be seen as a gesture of acceptance, and walked through the door.

As learned a man as Oswald Cobblepot was, he did have a rather glaring weakness for the ostentatious. When he had money, whether legitimate or illegitimate, he had an almost desperate need to prove it through flashy and public displays of wealth, philanthropy and charity. He didn't drive cars: he rode in limos. He didn't drink supermarket beer; he sipped expensive scotches and wines. It wasn't an uncommon behavioral trait amongst the criminally wealthy in Gotham, but few worked at it as hard as the Penguin.

Nowhere was this pathological need for acclaim more apparent than in his pride and joy: The Iceberg Lounge. Crystal chandeliers, handcrafted tables and chairs (recreations, as most of the original furniture was gone before the purchase), original paintings from Gotham's leading artists, impeccably dressed waiters and waitresses, and enough gold leaf to choke an elephant. In the center of the room, set deep into the floor was the titular iceberg, complete with several penguins on loan from the Gotham Zoo. The top of that iceberg formed a catwalk which lead onto the Lounge stage and bandstand, which allowed the performer (tonight, the lovely and talented Margot Devaughn) an elevated and unobstructed view of the entire room, rather the opposite of the standard stage or amphitheater model. Yet another example of the Penguin's innate need for superiority, some might say, but never out loud.

At the moment, Edward Nygma hated it. Too many people. Too much noise. How could people stand to be in these sorts of places, much less _want_ to spend there time here? All this talking and laughing and singing and music and glasses tinkling and forks scraping on plates, just constant noise all the damn time. Why was there nowhere in this city where a man could get some peace?

"Edward!"

Oswald's voice, slightly nasal with a trace of the Eton accent he had appropriated during his schooling abroad. Reluctantly Nygma tore his gaze from the floor and turned his attention towards the direction of the call. The frantically waving umbrella at the corner table seemed familiar, so he headed over, each step feeling like it carried the weight of the world with it.

Unlike some of the other more colorful citizens of Gotham, who seemed to go through more outfits than a 16 year old girl, the Penguin hadn't changed all that much in his years of professional crime. A black tuxedo (tailored by the most exclusive menswear shop in the city), top hat when appropriate, a monocle to correct a slight astigmatism in his right eye, his jet-black cigarette holder and of course his often deadly umbrella, which completed the penguin image that his short stature and avian features began. Simple yet iconic, and Oswald was nothing if not a supporter of his own brand. He was the Penguin, lord of all he surveyed, with a hand in the pocket of every high-roller in Gotham and a collection of favors from every 2-bit piece of scum from Arkham to Bludhaven. He didn't change; people changed for him, and they damn well knew it.

Tonight he was drinking wine. Red, most likely a Beaujolais, of which he was a huge fan.

Sitting across from Mr. Cobblepot, dressed in a navy-blue suit was Warren White, otherwise known as the Great White Shark. Originally an incredibly corrupt but normal businessman, Warren copped an insanity plea in order to avoid jail time for his numerous and prolific crimes. Unfortunately this meant a cozy padded room in Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane, Gotham's favorite madhouse. Details of Warren's experiences in psychiatric care were sketchy at best (Nygma refused to believe that nonsense about ghosts and portals to hell that seemed to be the main theory around the water cooler), the end results were all too clear: hair loss, severe skin discoloration, the loss of his nose, ears, several fingers and the malingering, toxic psychosis that seemed all too common amongst the inmates of the institution. A bit of insanity never did much to deter the criminal element around here though, and so it was with the man formerly known as Warren White. After adopting the nom de guerre of the Great White Shark (in reference to his now grotesque appearance), GWS threw himself to his arms trading, bunko deals and black marketing with a far greater enthusiasm than he had before. A little pushy, but a relatively nice guy once you got to know him.

Recently, possibly a result of his ongoing mental degradation, it seemed that White had developed a prominent case of Pica, a disorder characterized by a hunger for non-nutritive substances. Paper, pencils, plastic bags, jugular veins (if that rumour about that hack Cluemaster trying to sell him out to the cops was true), every time that Nygma saw him in public it seemed like the Great White Shark was chewing some new and exotic object. Tonight: pink artist's gum erasers, collected in a nearby bowl, which he was currently digging into like popcorn.

He was drinking a Bloody Mary. A rather large Bloody Mary.

Last but not most, sitting next to the Shark in a 10 dollar suit was Drury Walker, aka Cameron Van Cleer, aka Killer Moth. Once a schlub in a vast sea of goons, thugs and two bit hoods, Walker decided to take the initiative and reinvent himself as one of the top power players in Gotham's costumed criminal longer Drury Walker, low class loser, he was now Cameron Van Cleer, high-class raconteur of vaguely European origins, who secretly-but-not-so-secretly lived a dual life as that masked thief and bon vivant Killer Moth. Of course Cameron, and by extension Moth, weren't actually any smarter than old Drury was. Or more skilled. Or more charismatic. So he was still a loser, but at least he was a well-known loser.

He was drinking lite beer from a can.

"Have a seat Edward, have a seat!" The Penguin crowed, as the former criminal walked up the table. "I've been waiting for you to arrive. You've had a very busy day, I trust?"

"Hey Eddy."

"Hi Mr. Riddler."

"Shut up Dru." Nygma muttered, as he sank down into the seat to Penguin. Letting his cane drop loudly onto the floor, he shoved his hands into his pockets and stared into the table.

"Come on guys, you know it's Cameron now!"

"Yeah, keeping telling yourself that kid." White shot back, after taking a swig from his drink. "Let's go Eddy, spill the details. How was your first day on the right side of the law? Meet any rich widows? Or some lady cops perhaps, eh? Enticed by the thought of forbidden passion that they dare not speak aloud?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Come on! What, you're a private dick for one day and suddenly you're too good to talk to your buddies anymore? Low blow man, low blow. I mean if it's Moth here that's bothering you we could just kill him."

"Uh…"

"Now Warren, you know my policy on violence in the Lounge. When Edward feels like telling us about it, I'm sure he will." Penguin replied. Turning about, he waved his umbrella at a passing waitress. "Candy? An Amaretto Sour for Mr. Nygma if wouldn't mind, my dear. Put it on Mr. White's tab."

"Hey! I may be the picture of success but I'm not made of money you know."

"Oh shush. Expecting the owner of the bar to pay for drinks, you really must be crazy."

"Only a little."

"Anyway," Penguin replied with a flourish of his hand, "Warren and Cameron were having a delightful conversation before you arrived, about the equipment one would need to rob a bank. Purely hypothetical of course, if anyone asks."

"Hm." Nygma grunted. Candy the waitress came by and placed his drink in front of him, nearly tripping on the cane but managing to make it look natural.

"Oh yeah! I forgot about that." White exclaimed, eraser chunks spraying everywhere. "So what is it exactly that you in the market for, Mothball? Hypothetically speaking, that is?"

"Well," Cameron said, putting on an air of confidence and know how, "my boys and I aren't a large gang, but we're talented. So I figure a Desert Eagle for everyone and we'll be good."

The Great White Shark considered this for a moment. For a second the only sound that could be heard from the table was the dull thud of his prosthetic fingers against the table. Then an abrupt "No."

Cameron's face fell. "What's wrong with it?"

"Tell me something kid: Why do people buy guns?"

"Protection?"

"No no no. It's all about _intimidation_. You see a man with a gun in his hand, you know that man is someone to be reckoned with. That man holds the power of life and death in his hands, so you give him the respect he deserves. Now, the security guards at the bank, the fuzz, they're all gonna have handguns, maybe even a few shotguns. You and your boys show up with handguns well, that just puts you on even footing doesn't it? The more power you have, the more people are intimidated by you, and the more people are intimidated by you, the more they respect you. It makes perfect sense."

"Alright, yeah." Cameron said, nodding along. "So what would be better then? Machine guns?"

"You're close pal, you're very close. A couple of AK-47's are going to go a long way in establishing the Killer Moth brand. But what if, and you're my friend here so I feel obligated to bring this up, what if, god forbid, the Batman shows up? The man goes through heavily armed criminals like Killer Croc goes through vagrants, especially if he has one or two of his little buddies around. A couple of assault rifles is just not going to cut it in today's competitive criminal underworld, especially when it comes to Gotham City."

"I don't know whether or not you've heard already," Oswald remarked quietly to Nygma, "but apparently Alex Yeager's wife was murdered earlier today. Erika, lovely girl, always made for pleasant company."

"Yes, I'm aware." Nygma replied, after a drink. "I was in the company of most of her brains, which happened to be spread out across the walls of her little home-away-from-home."

The Penguin shook his head morosely. "Such a shame. Never could stand messy deaths, especially when it came to women. As if we need another Joker or Abattoir in this city."

"Hm."

"Heavy. Artillery. You get me? I'm talking rocket launchers, grenade rifles, C4, bulletproof vests, all in their own convenient carrying cases. With crushed velvet interior, I might add." White had managed to get his around Walker's shoulders, a move he always used when he was on a roll. "You show up at Gotham First National with that, people will be throwing the deeds to their houses at you, that's how tough you'll be. You blow the vault, grab the cash, and waltz right on out of there. Cops show up, you blast 'em. The Batman shows up, you blast 'em. What are they gonna do to stop you? You'll be a team of one man armies. Overwhelming military force man, it's how we won the Cold War."

"I remember that." Cameron said, nodding to himself. "But all those guns sound kinda expensive. We only have 5,000 dollars to buy the guns and stuff."

"According to my sources," the Penguin continued, "the Cavalier was the one who murdered her.

For the first time in hours, Edward Nygma could feel the gears start to turn in his mind. "Mortimer Drake? He doesn't hit women. Can't hit women, from what I remember from his medical records. Anyway, isn't he still in Arkham?"

"That'll work great as a down payment, pal," The Shark relented, "but I will have to take a cut of the take to cover the rest of the bill. Let's say 80% of the take?"

"80%?! That's crazy!"

"Hey man, cool your jets for a second and think about it. You guys are going to have the guns, the equipment, it's going to be a walk in the park to get that money. Now me, I had to deal with the guys overseas, I had to grease the palms of the guys down at the wharf, not to mention Black Mask or the Ventriloquist trying to muscle in on my deal. It's not like a I can just pull out a gun and solve all my problems like you can chief. I figure I did the lion's share of the work with this bank job, it's only fair that I get the lion's share of the spoils. Hypothetically speaking, of course."

"From last I heard, he is." Penguin explained. "I thought he might have been behind a recent theft at the museum, but apparently he's been in lockdown since he botched his last job. They found some of his hair at the crime scene however, and there's apparently a video from hotel security that shows him and Erica walking in together. Of course he could have escaped Arkham, murdered Erica and then snuck back in, but that doesn't really seem like his modus operandi, does it?

"Yes," Nygma mumbled, "very curious…"

"I guess you're right. But 80%?"

"Don't think of it as losing money. Think of it as investing money towards bigger and better jobs in the future. You're at the start of what could potentially be an incredibly profitable and incredibly worthwhile career here. Cameron van Cleer, The Killer Moth! Scourge of Gotham City and enemy of the innocent! All yours, if you take the first step now."

Up on stage, Margot Devaughn had arrived for her second set, with a dress that shined almost as much as her smile. The band kicked into something by Gershwin and Nygma found there was a fresh new drink where his old finished one had been.

"So," The Penguin said, "are you going to take the case?"

"What, and not get any credit for it?" Drink. "Besides, Officer Drexel of the G.C.P.D. made it perfectly clear that if I did, then I would be sharing a spot in the morgue with what's left of Mrs. Yeager." Drink. "Philistines. Neanderthals. Threatening me like that. He's lucky he can manage to tie his shoes in the morning, and he thinks he can talk down to like I'm some nobody. Everyone in Gotham City knows the name of Edward Nygma, who the hell knows Detective _Phil Drexel_?" Drink. "No, he doesn't deserve my help, none of those Gordon cronies do." Drink. "Morons. Mythomaniacs. Sheep." Drink. "Well they can play second-fiddle to B-... to vigilantes all they want. Chasing capes, that's all they're good for anyway." Drink. "I don't care."

"You know, I think you're right, Mr. Shark!" Cameron said. "When can I, uh, ' _inspect the merchandise'_? I've got a lot of ' _work'_ to do, if you know what I mean?"

"Oh I get ya alright." White replied with a wink. "Meet me at the Jade Koi restaurant in Chinatown in about two hours. Bring the money, and we can go from there. And please, we're friends here. Call me Great."

If Oswald had any sort of opinion about his friend's response, he didn't show it, and Edward didn't bother to look. "It's your decision, obviously. By the by, The Knights will be throwing a little party on Thursday. Will you be attending?"

"The Knights?" Edward said with distaste. "That one albino couple? Aren't they brother and sister or something like that?"

"Half-siblings, to be precise. Though I don't think I'd bring it up to a man who calls himself the Nightslayer without a trace of irony. Anyway, there's going to be a lot of our former business associates there, I'm sure you could drum up some work there. Maybe even legal work."

"Eh, I guess…" Drink. "Mob types are so _boring_ though. Have you tried to hold a conversation with Mario Infantino? All the man talks about are cooking shows and his mother."

"The reality of life outside the cape & mask set, I'm afraid. The conversations tend to trend exclusively towards the banal."

"Thanks a lot !" Cameron said, as he shook White's hand vigorously. "I really feel like this could be a brand new start for me, you know, as a person! I'm finally gonna start getting some respect in this town!"

With a grin, the man once known as Drury Walker eagerly wriggled his way out of the booth, barely managing not to hit the floor as he tripped over an inconveniently placed cane. Giggling to himself, he practically jogged towards the exit, his fists shaking with a childlike glee. The Great White Shark watched him go, a small smile on what was left of his lips, then turned back.

"Mr. Walker seemed in quite the cheery mood." The Penguin said. "I take it the discussion went well?"

"Oh yeah, it was great." the former Warren White replied. "Dude is going to pay me 5000 bucks to take those guns I stole off of Wesker last week. Most generous guy I ever met, by far."

"Really? Does Mr. Walker know he's purchasing stolen goods?Does Mr. Wesker know that you stole some of his property?"

"Well really it's up to the customer to do the proper research before they make a purchase. I'm just trying to make a living " White swirled his drink with the tip of an eraser. "But you know Ozzie, you're right, it is a bit underhanded of me. I'm sure Scarface will be very grateful to know who is using his equipment. Might even reward me quite handsomely for the information too."

"And if Mr. Walker decides to show some Gotham hospitality and kill you after you fulfill your half of the bargain?"

"Oh, I'm sure him or one of his cronies will get the idea in his head to try to bump me off, it's the hallmark of small-minded people. The thing is, they probably wouldn't do it until after the job is completed. The sight of all that money will get the blood boiling, you know. If they don't get killed by the cops first, then they'll find Scarface's men waiting for them at their safehouse. Or maybe I'll call Scarface after I collect Dru's 5 grand. I mean, who's he gonna believe? Me, or the schmuck who's desperate to prove he's a 'big player'? Either way I get my money, so who cares?"

Oswald Cobblepot shrugged, his expression as always a carefully structured mask of bemusement. "I guess I'm just not one to put so much effort into so little payoff."

"Come on Ozzy, you know it's not about the money. It's about the fun! Winding up dumb bastards like Dru back there and seeing what happens? It's my raison d'etre, like painting was for Picasso and Taiwanese pool boys were for Mayor Hill. Hell, I haven't felt this good since my damn face fell off, man." Had Edward Nygma been looking back, he might have noticed the Great White Shark's eyes gleaming with the same hungry look that had appeared when he was talking with the unfortunate Killer Moth. "How about it Eddy? Miss it yet?"

A dozen or so feet away Margot Devaughn finished her song, and Edward Nygma kept drinking.


	3. Opportunities and Recriminations

( _AN: Apologies for what is likely going to be a erratic posting schedule. Also apologies for the short chapters. I'd like to say it's Chandler-esque but I think that's overestimating my abilities.)_

When was the last time he had gone a day without a smoke, Commissioner James Gordon wondered as he packed the bowl of his Billard pipe with a pinch pungent tobacco. Decades at this point, before Sarah and the kids had entered the picture, the week after joining up with the Marines. Basic training had been hell, and no one had any sympathy for the guy wheezing through the exercises, especially his drill instructor. What was his name? Orenstein, he thought. What a hardass.

At the time he had never really missed it, but when he and the family had moved to Gotham it seemed like the habit quickly resurfaced. At first it was just a quick smoke after he had gone home from work, but as the days went on and the work kept piling up, with all the killer clowns and costumed gangsters crawling out of the woodwork, that moment seemed to come earlier and more frequent every time. In some ways, it felt like the only real constant in his now incredibly chaotic life, a small bit of control that eluded him everywhere else in this damn city. Or maybe he was just making excuses to justify indulging in an addiction. God knows there was enough of that in this city too.

"So, do either of you want to tell me how one of Gotham's most notorious criminals just waltzed onto a crime scene, started playing Columbo, and every single one if the officers on site were powerless to do anything to stop him?" Gordon released a slow trail of smoke across his desk. "Because I'm all ears."

Officer Maria Chen shifted in place, feeling a surge of embarrassment shoot from the base of her spine through her entire body. There was something about being called to the Commissioner's office first thing in the morning that smacked of mischievous elementary school children being sent to the principal's office, a scenario that hadn't been unfamiliar to her growing up. Not that she had a problem with authority necessarily (she was a police officer after all), but the idea of standing in front of someone who had her future in their hands, judging her, that had always been slightly unnerving. She pushed it away as best she could.

Drexel, perhaps to his credit, seemed nonplussed.

"Well sir, it was a, um, calculated risk." She replied. "Having studied the file on Edward Nygma's tendencies, as well as that of Gotham's other costumed criminals, I was aware of his more violent tendencies. Rejection could lead to retaliation, which would have possibly put members of the GCPD at risk. Also, as I attempted to explain to Officer Drexel at the time, feeding into his ego might have lead to Nygma tipping his hand on any information on the murderer or the murder itself."

"And did it lead to any new information?"

"...No, sir. Most Nygma's observations had already been made by the Batman earlier in the night."

"So what you're saying is that let a former super-criminal contaminate a crime scene on the basis of a hunch?" Gordon asked, his pipe jiggling slightly as he talked. "Is that your assertion?"

"Yes sir. I accept full responsibility."

A moment passed, and Chen could feel Gordon's stare pierce right through to her core. Then it was gone, and he was the same kind, slightly sad man she had met on her first day of work.

"Chen, I know things are different in Opal. These 'super villains' are much more rare there, much easier to handle, especially with that star guy of yours around. Not to disparage the work that Commissioner O'Dare does over there of course, the crime rates speak for themselves. This isn't Opal City, however. The criminals here are violent, they are sadistic, and a large portion of them are legally insane, which them difficult to predict and twice as dangerous. You have to keep these people at arm's length, because they will exploit every angle, take any opportunity they can to manipulate you to their own ends. Especially when it comes to high-profile criminals like Edward Nygma." Gordon said, tapping his finger on the bowl of his pipe in a contemplative manner. "Every year I tell our rookie's that same thing, and every year we still lose some. Because they see these people in flashy costumes and they underestimate them, and they end up dead, or maimed, or about a dozen other things that shouldn't happen to a decent person. You're a good cop Chen, and I'd like to keep you around for as long as possible."

"Thank you sir." Chen replied, a small grin on her face. "I'll try to make you proud."

"That's exactly what I was trying to tell her yesterday Commish." Drexel jumped in. "Gotta watch yourself around these loonies. That's GCPD 101 right there."

The Commissioner turned his gaze on Drexel, his expression shifting to the polar opposite of how he had been with her.

"Cut the horse hockey Drexel. You've got a list of offenses going back to the Loeb administration, and if the things Officer Chen brought to my attention are true, then you haven't changed a damn bit ince. Death threats and attempted extortion? In case you weren't aware, Detective Drexel, you're supposed to be a police officer, not Sal Maroni!"

Drexel raised his hands in the air, which to an observer could have been either a shrug or a gesture of commiseration. His expression, at the very least, failed to show remorse. "It was an act sir, all an act! You know the Riddler is a sucker for theatrics, and he loves to think he's some kind of grandmaster. So I set up a, what do ya call it, a honey trap, by setting Chen up as the victim. He takes the bait, and then we get Chen as a double agent, feeding us info on his plans. There wasn't time to tell her it was a con, and if she was in on it at the start then he might have caught on."

"Oh yeah, clearly you were only doing what was best for your fellow officers ," Gordon shot back "and when people wake up a day from now chained to explosive rubik's cubes, we'll know who to thank for antagonizing the criminally insane."

"Come on, Commish-"

"Can it! I've got Freeze threatening to turn Gotham Harbor into a sheet of ice, Joker sending explosive get well cards to cancer patients, and a rash of poisonings that looks like Poison Ivy's handiwork, but don't assume my need for able officers means I won't bust your ass down to meter maid if I hear about one more case like this. We're trying to keep Gotham held together here, I don't want or need people in my department tearing it down! Am I understood, Detective?"

"Yes sir." Drexel grumbled, with a sour look on his face.

"Good." From Gordon's tone, it was clear there that was the end of it. "Now, about the Yeager case, the boys in forensics dig up anything yet?"

"Nothing much sir." Chen replied, handing Gordon a manila folder. "Forensics has confirmed that Yeager was murdered by blunt force trauma to the back of the head, caused by a stone bookend she had in her room. No prints on the weapon, unfortunately. In fact, there's no evidence that anyone besides Erica Yaeger was in the apartment at all, except for the one strand of hair we found on the body. Lab has identified it as belonging to Mortimer Drake, alias The Cavalier. Surveillance footage from the hotel lobby and numerous eyewitness accounts from the hotel and Zeroes, some local nightclub, also place Drake with Ms. Yeager the entire evening prior to the murder."

"Except that ol' Morty has been stuck in Arkham ever since he tried to pull that job at one of Bruce Wayne's rich guy parties." Drexel added.

"So he's being framed, then?" Gordon asked, as he skimmed the documents in the folder. It seemed less a question and more a statement of fact.

"That's what the Batman seemed to think when he showed up." Drexel replied. "Said Drake had a 'psychological aversion' to harming women; didn't fit his M.O."

"So whoever it was didn't bother to do the research beforehand, which means this probably wasn't an attempt at ruining Drake's reputation, what little of it there is." Gordon mused. "Have we been able to get ahold of Alex Yeager yet?"

"Not yet sir. Communications out of the U.K. are still down due to that business with the JLI. We'll keep on it."

"Good." Gordon leaned back in his chair, stretching out muscles that were already starting to ache so early in the day. "In the meantime, I want you two to head up to Arkham, see if you can get anything useful out of Drake. See if he got on anybody else's bad side recently. Go through Yaeger's known associates and employees too,. could be that one of his buddies was trying to score brownie points with the chief by bumping off the unfaithful wife."

"Yes sir."

"Alright then, dismissed." Gordon waved them off with a wave of his hand. "Remember what I said Drexel."

"Yes sir Commissioner sir." Drexel replied, firing off a lazy salute as he sauntered out the door

Gordon watched him go, that stern frown back in full force. He thought back to his first year in the GCPD, back when Loeb, Flass and their little gang of jackbooted thugs had treated the city and the department like their own private playground. Then he thought about Sarah and Barbara, and how his adopted daughter had changed from a rambunctious teenager into a beautiful young woman, and yet it didn't seem like Gotham had changed one damn bit since then. In fact, it seemed like it was even worse, even with good people like Batman around. Every year, another Joker, another Black Mask, another Scarecrow, a legion of lunatics and killers that had to be dealt with. It's all just a continuous downward spiral of misery, of crime and death and despair until the whole town just crumbled to dust, and nothing that he had did with his life would amount to anything.

Then he took a puff on his pipe and got back to work.

Edward Nygma was a smart man. Indeed, there were some (Edward Nygma in particular) who would call him an unequivocal genius, living proof that the human race could be more than the brutish, small-minded neanderthals that typically populated the cities of the Earth. That his prodigious talents should go to waste here, attempting to bring these witless subhumans out of the darkness of their own ignorance was truly one of the greatest tragedies of mankind. They certainly hadn't earned it, and they definitely didn't deserve it, but part of being possessed with such an awesome power was the obligation of applying it responsibly and fairly, and the great Edward Nygma was nothing if not fair and responsible. Inspirational even, like the Buddha or Jesus Christ

So if it seemed like he, the great Edward Nygma, was looking a bit undignified as he slowly regained consciousness, dragging himself up off of the floor, then that simply wasn't the case. It was true that occasionally the stress of being a role model for the unwashed masses was not completely missed by him, and that perhaps his behaviour could be...erratic. However, that he didn't mean he was _crazy_ , it didn't mean he wasn't in control over himself, like _some_ people liked to imply. It just meant that he was eccentric at times, and it was only the willfully ignorant who described eccentricity as a negative term.

He stood up, unsteadily, and attempted to regain homeostasis, as well as his bearings. He was in his apartment/office, as he had suspected, across the street from what used to be known as the Ventriloquist Club (what Scarface lacked in creativity and general mobility he made up for in mutilations), a modest yet secure refuge from the world that he had picked up while extorting the City Council and had never gotten around to disposing of it. It wasn't really up to his standards of course, the furniture was a thrift store nightmare and the computer system was barely adequate for his purposes, and there was this particular neon sign advertising a local den of iniquity that managed to pierce through even the strongest of window blinds. However, it seemed like plebeians were more willing to accept something if it appeared to come from someone on their level, so here he was. Slumming it up.

Suddenly, Edward came to the realization that the omnipresent pounding that he had been hearing since he had awoke wasn't just from his recovering head, but from his door as well. The former super-criminal considered the possibility that it could be an assassin, sent by any one of a number of enemies that he had accrued during his time as The Riddler, maybe even that thick-skulled jackanape Detective Drexel. Then his head twinged in pain again, and he decided he would take his chances.

The view from the peephole didn't reveal anything extremely impressive about his guests: Two males, late 30s, brown eyes, one balding and carrying a brown leather briefcase, the other with grease-slicked hair, both rather 'dumpy' to use the common parlance, which they attempted to hide with tailored suits and expensive watches. If they were assassins (and Edward assumed they were not) they certainly didn't look the part, and in Gotham City a trained killer that didn't look like one was something of a rarity. So he opened the door.

"Ah! Good morning to you sir!" The grease-slick man said cheerfully, extending his hand. "Mr. Edward Nygma, I presume?"

"Brilliant deduction, genius." Edward replied testily. "Did the question marks give it away? Listen gentleman, you've woken me from a particularly pleasant nap, so I'd suggest that you get to whatever it is you're here to do before I lose my patience."

"Yes, of course. Our apologies, Mr. Nygma." The grease-slicked man said. "My name is Joseph Kahn."

"And I'm Milton Andrews."

"We understand that you have been selling your services as a private investigator. Well, we represent the interests of Mr. Karl Courtney, who wishes to employ your services for a delicate matter."

"We were referred by Mr. Cobblepot. He spoke very highly of your abilities."

"Of course, Oswald Cobblepot is a fantastic judge of character. If only more people in this town shared his level of insight, it might just become livable." Edward just barely managed to suppress a grin. "Well, my schedule is currently free, so I suppose I could take a look at your case. See whether it's worth my time, you understand. No offense, but I'm not going to traipse through seedy back alleys to take pictures of unfaithful spouses, even if you can afford my fee."

"We recognize how precious your time is, Mr. Nygma, and believe us, what Mr. Courtney is asking is far more important than a simple domestic squabble."

Kahn made a subtle motion towards Milton, who nodded and held up the leather briefcase level to his waist. With a click, the lid flipped open, revealing that the case was filled to the brim with stacks of money. A veritable herd of Benjamin Franklin's, which stared unblinking at Edward Nygma with the same sort of bemused expression that he was giving them.

"We want you to solve a murder."


	4. Arkham

( _AN: A big apologies to the reading public out there for the wait. The directions I've wanted to take this story have been changing, perhaps even for the better, ever since the first chapter, and that combined with real life has made the writing process a hassle. I tried to pack as much stuff into it as I could to make up for it, so hopefully it was worth the wait.)_

"So would you have actually done it?" Chen asked.

It was the first thing she had said since their meeting with Commissioner Gordon. Really, it was the only thing she had said since the incident the night before, which had proved to make car rides increasingly uncomfortable. Car rides such as the one they were on now.

"Done what?" Drexel asked around a mouthful of donut.

"Blacklist me. Ruin my career because I wouldn't go along with your little bullying act. You know, _**that**_ _._ " There was steel in her voice now.

Drexel swallowed. "I already told you and Gordon, it was an act! A put-on to fool Riddler."

"Yeah? Well I don't think you were kidding. I think if you didn't get chewed out by the Commissioner then you would have done it with a smile on your face."

"Listen, kid, you have to understand something," Drexel began, briskly shaking the crumbs from his clothes. "This is Gotham, the biggest cesspool of a town since Hub City. Even before all the loonies showed up it was a cesspool; The Falcones, the Maronis, dirty judges, dirty politicians, it's all just rotted to hell. We're all just here to watch it die."

He fished around in his pockets for a second, eventually pulling out a match and a well-worn cigar.

"When you've been around as long as I have, you'll figure it out." Drexel said, his cigar stuck securely in the side of his mouth as he struggled to light the match. "The system here isn't built to help anything or anyone, it's just a front for the mob and their stooges to stay rich while we run around playing grabass with all the wackos running around this garbage. Who are more popular than us, by the way. The freakin' Joker has his own fan club, did you know that? Bunch of punks dressing like clowns, coming out in droves and cheering whenever he blows up a hospital. How the hell are you supposed to fight something like that?

"So maybe I bend the rules a bit, do things my own way. So what? You were trying to collude with Riddler, Gordon lets some dude in a bat costume catch crooks, everyone here skirts the law in their own little way every single day. That's just how it is, kid. Sooner you learn that, the better."

"How about you learn something instead, _**sir**_." Chen replied. "I don't know where you got the impression that I'm some doe-eyed rookie, or that Opal City was some crime-free utopia, but I'm not and it wasn't. I've had plenty of experience with twisted people, super criminal and otherwise, and I've had plenty of experience with guys like you. You're a bully and a coward detective, someone who wants the power of a badge but none of the responsibility, someone who demands respect but engenders none. You don't even hide it behind a loyalty to the force, you're just a bitter old bastard who gave up a long time ago and wants to drag everyone else down with him. Am I close enough?

"So don't give me anymore nihilistic sermons and don't impede this investigation any further, because there are some people in this world that still know what being a police officer means. Oh, and we're supposed to be partners, which means we're meant to be equals, so don't ever talk down to me again."

"Alright, alright, I get it already!" Drexel said, throwing the match (which had utterly failed to light) in the floor of his seat with an exasperated sigh. "Geez. You let 'em break the glass ceiling and they start stabbing you with the pieces."

The rest of the trip was taken in silence, aside from a few directions grunted out by Drexel, who seemed to be in a sulking mood after his cigar mishap. The atmosphere of tension had lifted somewhat however, and it wasn't long before the wrought-iron gates and the dismal buildings that comprised the Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane loomed vulture-like on the horizon, a Victorian-era relic tucked away in a corner so as not to get in the way of Gotham's art-deco excess.

Chen was familiar with Arkham, of course. It was one of the largest mental health institutions in the United States after all, and easily the most famous (or infamous, as the case may be). Not only that, it was one of the very first correctional facilities to become known for housing a significant amount costumed criminals, all with their own unique and dangerous psychoses, a veritable goldmine for any psychiatrist looking to make big money and sell a few books. Assuming you could deal with the constant escapes and psychological strain from dealing with a cadre of murderers, cannibals and domestic terrorists day after day, that is.

What's more, the outward appearance of Arkham didn't engender much confidence when it came to security. Armed security guards at the gate, barbed wire and lights dotted intermittently across the high brick & mortar wall that surrounded the compound. Parking space was nonexistent, opting instead for a large courtyard that branched off into several well-tended cobblestone paths that lead to the administrative center, the botanical gardens and the asylum itself, which forced any arriving vehicles to crowd themselves into the corners lest they completely block off the entrance. The large stone statue of asylum founder Amadeus Arkham placed directly in the center of the courtyard, his gaze ever turned towards Gotham, also made the prospect of exiting a hellish one. Especially when that statue was surrounded by vans from several local TV news stations, and a crowd of cameramen and reporters were milling about the entrance.

"Oh joy of joys," Drexel grumbled, as the car shuddered to a stop, "Can't have a freak show without an audience."

The two officers barely managed to take two steps from their vehicle before a familiar voice rung out over the general noise of the crowd.

"Well, well, if it isn't a few representatives from the Gotham City Police Department, showcasing that adherence to speed and punctuality they've become famous for over the years. Maybe in a few more years you'll figure out what killed the dinosaurs."

From out of the crowd of confused looking television journalists, Edward Nygma stepped forward, slowly twirling his cane like Bat Masterson sidling up to a bar. Gone was the trademark green and black suit as well, replaced by a powder blue and lilac outfit, with black question marks sewed onto the lapel of course, that seemed to have come straight from a bygone year that hadn't really existed. That look of supreme confidence however, the same one that Chen had seen when he had burst through the door last night, hadn't changed a bit.

"Officers Chen and Drexel, as I live and breathe! I suppose you've come for an autograph? Perhaps a few pointers on the nature of problem solving? I'm afraid I'm terribly busy at the moment, but I'm sure I can spare a few moments for those less fortunate than I am."

"Yeah, and what's with the cameras Riddler? Making some home movies?" Drexel countered. Far more restrained than she had been expecting, Chen noticed, though whether that was from the talk in the car or the presence of reporters she couldn't tell.

"Oh Detective Drexel. what a comedian you are. Like P.G. Wodehouse without the wit. However, I believe we'll have to reschedule that _**death threat**_ ," he glanced back at the reporters, "that you made for another time."

"Why exactly are you here, Nygma?" Chen asked, as she subtly stepped in between the two men. "Regardless of how my partner acted yesterday, the GCPD is not looking for a consultant, and we can't have you impeding an ongoing investigation."

"Really! It's just like the members of Commissioner Gordon's goon squad to assume that everyone in this city fall to their knees at every whim." Nygma replied with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "It's true, , that in the spirit of goodwill I was ready to hire out my prodigious services to Gotham City's law enforcement community. Which you rejected, in what could only be described as a fit of jealousy. Fortunately for the people of Gotham, a concerned party has asked me to look into poor Ms. Yeager's murder, and so I've begun my own investigation as a private detective. You can lend assistance if you want, but to be honest it won't really be necessary."

"Figures you would find a way to completely fuck up the concept of a 'private' detective."

"You may be fine with languishing in obscurity Detective Drexel, I'm not."

"Excuse me?" A young blonde reporter, no doubt one of the countless number of female journalism students inspired by Vicki Vale's wild success, broke away from the crowd. "Someone made an anonymous call to our station saying they had a tip to the Erica Yaeger murder, but when we got here this guy was talking about being a private detective or something. Are you here to arrest him?"

"This _guy_?" Nygma echoed with disgust.

"I'm seriously considering it." Chen replied, eyeing the former criminal testily before turning to the reporter. "Listen, we're going to have to ask you to leave. We're currently in the middle of an ongoing investigation, and we really can't have the media here."

"Well yeah," the reporter replied, "but doesn't the public have, like, a right to know what's going on in their own backyard?"

"Not since the Johnson administration kid." Drexel said.

"This _guy_?!"

"I'm afraid I must agree with the police officers on this matter." rumbled a voice from near the crowd.

When Maria Chen was a child, she would often sit down with her grandfather and listen to stories about his childhood, life in Opal City, World War II and just about everything else. She would sit on his knee, transfixed, as he weaved tales about the adventures of the Justice Society of America and their struggle against the Axis Powers and organized crime and all those things which seemed almost unbelievable to her now as an adult. They were great stories of course, getting to hear about Green Lantern and Flash and Starman, superheroes before the concept of superheroes, but she could distinctly remember always being a little disappointed whenever he got to the villains. Everyone knew the big names like Solomon Grundy or the Ultra-Humanite of course, but more often than not it seemed like in those days the world was constantly in danger by middle-aged men in white labcoats, trying to destroy the Allied Powers or hold the country at ransom with some sort of killer robot or weather controlling machine.

That wasn't to imply that the thickset man in the white lab coat standing calmly by the bottom of the steps to the asylum was some sort of Nazi or mad scientist, but Chen had to admit that there was something off about him. The soothing, Teutonic cadence of his voice, his immaculately trimmed chin strap beard (offsetting his completely bald head), the way you never seemed to be able to see his eyes through the smoked lenses of his pince nez glasses, it was as if he had crafted his appearance from the ground up to induce a feeling of uneasiness in those around him. Successfully, Chen had to admit.

"While we here at Arkham Asylum always appreciate it when the media chooses to place focus on mental health and psychiatric services in Gotham City, it would be for the best that those without prior appointments to please leave. I'm afraid the presence of so many television cameras has a tendency to," he paused, looking out over the crowd with shadowed eyes, " _agitate_ our patients."

It hadn't been a threat, he hadn't voiced it as a threat, but everyone knew all too well what 'agitating the patients' entailed. The crowd quickly and quietly dispersed, unwilling to risk their lives in what would likely be less than a top story that day. As the vans started the process of filling out, the man in the lab coat walked up to the officers and Nygma, who looked less than pleased.

"Of course our patients be agitated at the sight of police officers as well, but we can't always get what we want, eh?" The man chuckled as he strode towards them.

"More often than not in this town doc." Drexel said.

"Detective Drexel, always nice to see a familiar." He replied, turning his eyeless gaze towards. "I'm afraid that I haven't had the pleasure, Ms.-?"

"Chen."

"Chen. My name is Professor is Professor Hugo Strange, head of psychiatry here at the Asylum. I understand you would like to speak with one of the patients, Mr. Mortimer Drake?"

" _We_ would like to speak to him, actually." Nygma cut in abruptly.

"Ah yes, Mr. Nashton!" Professor Strange said, as if he had just noticed Edward was there. "I heard that you were thinking of becoming a private investigator. Using your abilities for the benefits of others, I'm very proud of you. Have you been keeping up with your therapy as I suggested?"

"I _am_ a private investigator and I _don't_ need therapy," Nygma growled, "and I told you, it's Nygma. Edward Nygma."

"Hmm. How unfortunate. I was hoping that our sessions together would have... _broken_ you of certain eccentricities, but psychology is a journey of small steps, not great strides. Don't worry, I'm sure you'll get the hang of it eventually." He shrugged, using a gloved hand to clear away an imaginary speck of dirt on his lapel. "All that aside, I believe our friend Mr. Drake should be finished with his own session by now. Shall we go?"

With that, Professor Strange turned about face and started heading back from when he came.. Nygma followed on his heels, his cane angrily stabbing at the ground with each step. Drexel let out a low whistle as they went.

"That guy's good."

"I hope so." Chen murmured.

Contrary to popular belief and superstition, the majority of which Chen had picked up from her friends back in Opal before her transfer, the interior of Arkham Asylum was not some sort of hellish dungeon. The floors weren't slick with the blood of men. The walls didn't echo with the tortured screams of the damned. It was just a regular psychiatric hospital; phones ringing, papers shuffling, orderlies going about their duties, from all appearances no different than any other she had seen in her life. Mundane to the point of being surreal, Chen mused, considering the people being treated here. Take enough time and people could get used to anything, it seemed.

"Professor Strange?" A blonde receptionist at the front desk called as they passed through the lobby. "Doctor Porter is on the line. He says he wants to know when you'll be done so you can review some of the recent exam results. Also there are a few documents here that you need to sign."

"Such an impatient man!" Strange exclaimed. "Tell Porter that I shall be finished when I am finished, and that I'll gladly recommend a good book if he's in such desperate need for a way to pass the time. As for the documents, just have them placed on my desk."

"Yes sir."

Not breaking pace, the four headed left from the lobby, entering a hallway labeled 'Forensic Ward A'.

"Tell me, Ms. Chen, how much do you know about Arkham?"

"Not all that much, I suppose." Chen admitted. "First psychiatric hospital to ever treat super-criminals. By far the biggest psychiatric hospital in the country in terms of the amount of super-criminals treated. Back in school you couldn't go a minute without hearing about this place, what it meant for criminology as a whole but once I got on the force it never really came up."

"Too busy arresting Opal's one criminal." Drexel quipped.

"We do seem to have a knack for attracting certain types of people, don't we?" Strange replied with a small grin. " In fact, one of the very first people ever treated at this facility was a 'super villain' of sorts. Martin Hawkins I believe his name was, although the newspapers of the time preferred the name 'Mad Dog'. Became rather infamous in his day for raping and murdering over a dozen women before his death, including the wife and daughter of the asylum's founder, Amadeus Arkham."

"What a charmer." Chen muttered.

"Then of course you had a few rather notable ones after that, around the time the original Green Lantern was operating. Peter Merkel, the Rag-Doll, spent some time here before his death. Federico Andretti, instigator of the 10th Street Massacre. James Sheridan, 'The Butcher of Bludhaven'. Fascinating cases, but it wasn't until around the time that the Batman appeared that these...unfortunate people started appearing more and more frequently."

"So are you one of those people who say that there's a direct link between Batman's presence in Gotham and the increase of costumed criminals?"

"Of course not, Ms. Chen. Correlation, after all, does not mean causation."

The end of the hallway featured the first and only armed guards Maria Chen had ever seen since arriving at the asylum, two burly men in bulletproof vests holding shotguns standing lazily by the doors. At their approach, the more energetic of the two stepped over and punched in a code on the numerical keypad. Then, with a satisfying metallic clunk, the doors slowly swung open.

"But it is quite the coincidence, isn't it?"

The Forensic Wards. A redundant title, left over from the days when the asylum treated those other than violent criminals, but one that managed to cling through the years, as old names tended to do in this city. Rows of cells on each side, a glass wall providing unobstructed view of the room's interior, which contained a toilet and a bed (sans sheets) and little else save for books, which every cell seemed to have piled in stacks next to the cell door on the opposite side of the room.

It was definitely a security risk. Prisoners throughout the ages had been able to do a lot with less, and seemingly unlimited access to materials sounded like a key to the front door, especially if some of these people were as intelligent as reports made them out to be. Perhaps the professor was counting on the prisoners needed anything they could to distract to distract them from the omnipresent piercing snow white which seemed to cover every inch of the cell, she thought from the door to the bed and even the prisoner's clothing. Were the lights in this particular section of the room brighter, it might have been blinding.

"The Joker was the first, by most accounts. Gotham's 'patient zero'." Strange continued. "A few months after I had established myself in Arkham, in fact. Then came the 'Old Guard', I suppose you could call them: Jonathan Crane, Jervis Tetch, Basil Karlo, Julian Day, former district attorney Harvey Dent, and of course our friend Mr. 'Nygma' here. Unfortunately, after that escape last month, and with Mr. Dent still in intensive care, you won't be seeing many 'big names' today."

"They all seem rather...subdued." Chen observed. It was probably the most tactful way to describe the hollow expression on the faces of these people as they passed them by. Most of them barely seemed to register anything at all, barely blinking as they stared at their featureless walls. "It's not quite what I was expecting."

""Yeah, yeah, there's more vegetables here than a garden salad." Drexel said. 'What happened to Dent anyway Doc? Catch a look at himself in a mirror or somethin'?"

"Nothing quite so droll, Detective. I'm afraid Mr. Dent just had a rather adverse reaction to his current treatment. As you're likely aware, after the incident which lead to his severe scarring Harvey Dent developed a, what's the right wording...obsessive fixation on binary concepts, as well as a firm belief in predestination, kismet as the Turks know it. In his persona of 'Two Face', this manifests itself in extreme dualistic and frequently violent behavior, facilitated by the flipping of a coin, which he seems to have latched onto as some kind of fetish. The delusion is so ingrained that he does not, or rather cannot, make even basic decisions without flipping his coin. So I decided to see if we could...direct him into confronting situations without being able to consult his coin. It's something I'm tentatively calling Denial Therapy."

"You took away his coin? Chen asked. "But you said that he couldn't make decisions without it."

"Indeed. When we removed his coin, Mr. Dent reverted to a near catatonic state. Refused food or water, would not sleep, et cetera. By the time we checked in on him he had even soiled himself, apparently unable to make the choice of whether or not to use the restroom. It was quite the ordeal, let me assure you."

"And to think I almost voted for the guy…" Drexel said.

"Doesn't seem like you're all that shaken up about it." Chen said. "A person nearly dies under my care directly due to my actions, I'd be a little more nervous. The potential lawsuits alone would be enough for me."

"Maybe if this were a hospital, Officer Chen," Nygma replied, the first words he had spoken since they had entered the building, "but it's not. It's a gulag."

"So dramatic, Mr. Nygma!" the Professor said, though he sounded more bemused than offended. "From what I recall from our sessions, you didn't even like Harvey Dent.. 'A common thug who substitutes creative thinking and wit for caveman violence and grade school threats, who only managed to stumble upon a position of influence because he showed up right after the Falcones had killed themselves off', I believe is how you described him."

"He's not the worst person I've met in here."

"I'm sure. As for your statement, Ms. Chen, I can only say that the extraordinary nature of our patients often requires an approach to treatment that may seem unusual or severe to the layperson, but is completely based on proven methods of psychiatric care. Ah, but I believe we've reached Mr. Drake. My my, that seemed to take quite a while, didn't it?"

Mortimer Drake. Originally a rather middle-of-the-road member of Gotham's exceedingly large population of idle rich, who divided his time between fencing practice and collecting rare and exotic pieces for his art collection, mostly works from Restoration era England. When the inheritance dried up, and with it the hopes of adding to his collection, Drake, inspired by the then-recent appearances of the Joker, Catwoman and other costumed criminals, decided to take his chances at a life of crime. Donning the outfit of a French musketeer outfit and affecting a rather bad approximation of a Shakespearean English accent (the cultural inaccuracy didn't seem to phase him), Drake became known as the Cavalier, a self-styled 'swashbuckling rogue' who committed high-profile acts of theft and grand larceny. Despite a flashy image and a sword that supposedly shot lightning however, Drake was a relatively small figure in the Gotham underworld, and as such tended to be rather harmless to those without expensive art collections.

Maybe it was one of those rich art collectors that orchestrated his recent incarceration in Arkham, as his file didn't describe any of the behavior that would have earned him a place alongside the regular inmates. Looking as he did, a 17th century fop dressed in a wrinkled white jumpsuit, it didn't even seem like he could rob a child's lemonade stand. At least he appeared to have his wits about him, which was more than could be said for everyone else she had seen in this place.

"Mr. Drake, you have some guests." Professor Strange announced.. "I expect you to be on your best behavior, you understand?"

"Oh my, if it isn't a couple members of the local constabulary." Mortimer Drake muttered drily as the Professor made his exit, slowly rising up off of his white bed with an air of extreme self-importance. He was still using a British accent, Chen noticed, but it wasn't nearly as pronounced as she had heard it was. "I'd say it was a pleasure, but the Professor had told me several times that lying is the first sign of recidivist behavior."

"Hello, my name is Detective Chen, this is my partner Detective Drexel. We're here to ask you a few questions."

"My dear girl, my whole life in recent years has been police officers wanting to ask me a few questions, I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific." Drake replied, then turned with an inquisitive towards Nygma. "Aren't you the Riddler. Don't tell me you joined up with the bobbies. There are far more interesting ways to earn a living in this town, my good man, don't debase yourself by going into law enforcement."

"It's just Edward Nygma these days," Nygma replied, leaning against the glass wall, " Private Investigator Edward Nygma. I'm here to listen to the cops here pick your brain a bit, kill some time before your lawyer decides to arrive."

"Oh, it's _that_ kind of questioning, is it?" Mortimer Drake said with a flip of the wrist. "Well, I'll be sure to tell you anything you want to know, as long as it doesn't implicate me in any way."

"Now listen, we're not here to arrest anyone." Chen said, exasperated. "But if you don't answer our questions then that might not be an option

"Well that's reassuring." Drake replied. "Considering I haven't done anything."

"Yeah, except crush your girlfriend's head like a overripe tomato." Drexel shot back

"Excuse me?" Drake asked.

"If we could _focus_ here."Where were you last night around 9 pm Mr. Drake?" Chen questioned.

"Where was I?! I was here of course, reading the same battered, and frankly poorly translated, edition of _The Three Musketeers_ since I arrived! Check the security footage around here if you're so convinced of my guilt."

"Somehow I don't think that'll help." Drexel muttered.

"Are you familiar with a woman named Erica Yeager? Blond, about 5'9"? Might have also gone by the name Chandler?"

"I assume that's the name of the woman I have supposedly done ghastly things to?" Drake asked, with a flip of the hair that reminded Chen of her mother whenever she was angry. "Well I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm afraid the name is foreign to me. If I have met her, and I have met a _lot_ of women, she certainly didn't leave that much of an impression."

"Know anybody who might have a grudge against you?"

"It's Gotham City. Who doesn't have a grudge?"

"Recently then. Someone with connections and money, maybe a part of one of the big crime families?"

"No, madam," Drake sighed, "I have been the perfect gentleman, in a manner of speaking. Even if there was someone out there attempting some sort of attack on my character, there are far easier and far more effective ways to go about it. I mean, thinking anyone would believe I would assault a woman? It goes against every tenet of chivalry!"

"You're a convicted felon, how is anything you do chivalrous?" Drexel asked.

"I didn't say I _followed_ every tenet, now did I? Now I believe I've indulged you long enough, officers, any further questions can be made to my lawyer when he arrives."

"Alright Mr. Drake." Chen said, after jotting down a few notes, "We'll let you get on with your day. I'd suggest not leaving town for the next few days."

"Oh how droll. The Bard himself wishes he had such rapier wit." Mortimer Drake replied. "I will not be going anywhere until this matter is settled, madam! This is a matter of honor, and Mortimer Drake is nothing if not honorable."

"Uh huh." Chen replied, although she didn't seem that convinced. "As for you Mr. Nygma…"

"Hey, I kept silent almost the entire time here, didn't I?" Nygma replied, hands open in a knowing mockery of supplication. "Let you get in all your questions too, although it does seem a bit waste to come all the way out here for little to nothing, doesn't it? A fault of police training these days, I'm sure. Tell you what, if you get Mr. Paranthropus over there to apologize, I'll take care of all this mystery-solving for you. I'll have to take all the credit of course, but at least you won't have to worry about embarrassing yourself."

"Bite me, nutso." Drexel growled.

"This is all one big joke to you, isn't it?" Chen asked.

"A joke? No, not at all." Nygma leaned in, a wolf like grin on his face. "It's a puzzle. A rebus. One that I'm going to solve. I'm a changed man, Officer, my karma is cleansed, and I'm ready to show Gotham the brand new Edward Nygma."

"All you've 'done' so far is make this whole case far more difficult than it should be." Chen retorted coolly. "One more stunt like that and you can kiss that private investigator's license of yours goodbye from a prison cell."

"And I'll lock you away myself." Drexel added.

"Ugh." Nygma gagged. "Watch yourself Ms. Chen, you're developing positively... _bat_ like mannerisms."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Chen responded. "Good day, Mister Nygma, Mister Drake. Come on Drexel."

Without another word, the two officers turned and left the way they came, the echoing sounds of the footsteps booming in the unnatural silence of the asylum. Edward Nygma watched them go, casually tapping his cane in time with their footsteps. Although his face was blank, his mind was a frantic rush of energy, concocting plans and counterplans, conducting interrogations on people he didn't know, pushing imaginary informants for leads that didn't exist, and his projected yearly income for the next five years, assuming that he solved one case a week (adjusted for inflation, naturally). More than any of those things however, he thought about the room in Erica Yeager's apartment, the pure white room stained with her blood. The fact that it filled him with the same sense of uneasiness he felt standing in this all-too-familiar achromatic hell...Well, it was troubling, to say the least.

"She is quite a bit like the Batman, isn't she?" Mortimer Drake remarked, as he flipped through a magazine.

Nygma looked at him with disgust. "You sure love to hear yourself talk, don't you?"


	5. Sisyphus

( _AN: Another chapter I'm not happy with, although I've rewritten it to be a bit more palatable. Mostly because it seems compromised by necessity, I suppose. The need to move the story along, the need to expand Drexel and Chen's characters beyond bargain-bin Bullock and Montoya, the need to put something out after circumstances kept me from writing etc.. Not to say there isn't some good stuff in here of course, because I think I veer towards competent at some point. It just never feels quite the way it's supposed to be, does it? Ah well._ )

"-And in other news, police are still investigating the death of Erica Yeager, wife of well-known real estate investor and financier Alex Yeager, whose body was found mutilated in her hotel room earlier this week. Although Police Commissioner James Gordon has declined comment on the specifics of the murder, rumors continue to spread that Mortimer Drake, former heir to Drake Mineral Resources, was seen with Miss Yeager prior to the incident. Drake of course has become famous, or rather infamous in recent years as the Cavalier, a costumed criminal and frequent enemy of the masked vigilante known as the Batman, and is currently serving 10 years in Arkham Asylum for multiple counts of armed robbery and aggravated assault. When asked, a representative of Mr. Drake refuted any and all claims of wrongdoing as 'scurrilous and insulting accusations' and that private investigators had been hired 'to look beyond slander and prejudice and establish the truth'."

"Moving on to world news, cries of outrage and some of support are still echoing across the globe after Justice League International member Guy Gardner mooned U.N. President Dante Caputo during an emergency session of the U.N. General Assembly, a move which some have said could have a negative effect on the JLI's funding in the future. This marks the 18th time that-"

"Man, I need to get out of this damn city." Jamal Warner muttered to himself, as he fiddled with the radio dial. Eventually he reached some r&b singer that he didn't really recognize and leaned back uneasily in the driver's seat of his car. "Move to Central City or something. Gotta be safer than this."

It was even worse when he had to head into the suburbs, or at least what passed for suburbs in Gotham. Sure, if you didn't watch yourself in the Cauldron or the parts of the Bowery that the Penguin had turned into a ghetto country club for his rich white buddies, then you were probably going to get your ass mugged, shot or stabbed, but at least there was _noise_ , y'know? There were people, up to all the same shit you were doing, having the same problems, trying to make it through the day. It was familiar, at the very least.

The suburbs, though? Rows upon rows of identical houses, silent as a graveyard whenever night rolled around, never knowing what could be going on behind closed doors? He had lived in Gotham long enough to know that when things were quiet, that was when it was time to worry. Quiet meant some bad shit was going on, whether you lived within the city limits or not.

Still, he thought to himself as his car shuddered to a stop outside a particularly average, particularly off-white house, it was probably worth it for Lisa. Jamal had been with a lot of women in his life (not that he was bragging or anything), of various nationalities, creeds, and degrees of maintenance, and yet none of them had really made him feel the way he did for her. She was smart, currently working her way to a degree in chemistry at Gotham University, she was funny, she was attractive...Incredibly attractive, in fact. He'd always been surprised that she hadn't tried getting into modeling or something like that. She wouldn't have had any trouble.

Finally, the front door. Jamal pounded on it a couple of times with his fist.

Maybe that's why he had been feeling so uneasy the last couple of days. She was smart enough to get a free ride through college, but for whatever reason she was working her way through it instead. She was hot enough to make money off of her looks, but she was spending her time cleaning up after rich assholes. She made enough money to afford her own place, but she still stayed with her parents. She could probably get with any guy she wanted, have her pick of any one of those law school, MBA fuckers, but she was with him instead.

No response. He rapped on the door a little harder. "Hey Lisa, you home?"

It wasn't that he didn't feel like he was good enough for her or any shit like that. He had his own place, he had his own car, he made a good chunk of change doing some small-time dealing...Never even got Batman or Robin on his case either. So why did it always feel like things were always so cool and calculated with her? As if their relationship was some challenge she was doing to test herself? Jamal was definitely a fan of sex, just not when it came with feeling like a science experiment.

Still no response. On a whim, Jamal gave the knob a quick, experimental turn. The door opened with an unexpectedly loud creak, slowly swinging into a quiet living room. A peculiar smell washed over him, as if he were stepping into the hot noonday sun of a summer day. Familiar, in some way.

Still, the sex was good. And if she was only using him to play out some sort of fantasy, then he guessed he was using her for things too. Which was probably the sign of a good relationship. It wasn't like he was a fucking psychiatrist or something.

"Oh god."

Every. Single. Time.

It was the setup to the perfect evening, Drexel thought to himself. Wife was out doing who the hell cared with her family. His favorite meal (an eggplant parmesan sub from Fredo's and the strongest IPA he could find at the corner store) hot and ready to go. Every Which Way But Loose and Any Which Way You Can on VHS. Maybe catch something steamy on Cinemax later on. Who could ask for anything more?

So of course some group of nitwits had to get themselves cut to ribbons by the new serial killer of the week, and of course he had to get dragged away from his meal and his entertainment to look at a couple of dead bodies. This kind of stuff didn't happen to the Vice Squad, he knew that much. Hell, if you were in Vice, you didn't even have to get out your damn car.

"You know, the guys in Vice don't even have to get out their cars." He remarked to Chen, leaning against a nearby armchair that was probably too cheap to be fashionable.

"The guys in Vice don't complain as much as you do too." Chen said, as she wrote down some things in her small notepad. "Maybe I should put in for a transfer."

"Hey, I'm old. Complaining is what old people do." He shot back. "Besides, it's not like the view is any good."

Drexel had never really been a fan of flowery language, and even less of a fan of people who used it, but it was hard to describe the scene in front of him as anything other than a 'grisly tableau'. Five people in all, tentatively assumed to have been the McElroy family: Middle-aged couple, one boy in his teens, one girl, around ten or eleven. Stripped nude, posed around a woman (mid 20s, most likely), lying impaled by a sword on the kitchen table like the centerpiece of some family dinner gone wrong. Faces sliced to pieces too, possibly due to the sword but more likely done by a razor or a kitchen knife. Bodies covered with blood as if it was painted in blood. Reminded him of something The Calendar Man had pulled on Thanksgiving a few years back actually, after some reporter had slagged him in the press. At least they weren't forced to eat each other this time around.

"Well, I'll have a better sense of what happened when I get them back to the lab." The coroner announced. He was a rather heavy set guy by the name of David Barr. Fun to have a beer with but absolutely crap at bowling, which was fine because Drexel never bowled. "But if I had to make a guess, I'd say these folks here were strangled to death."

"Strangled?"

"Yeah, and whoever offed these folks didn't skimp on their Wheaties either. Severe bruising around the throat, trachea is likely totally crushed." David sighed. "Man oh man. They've been sitting like this for a couple hours now, I'd place the time of death around 6 pm. The ones around the table at least, the girl on the table has been dead for over 24 hours. I think the family might have also been drugged prior to the whole, uh, strangling incident. Barbiturates. I'll need to get them into the lab to make

"At least they went out smiling." Drexel quipped.

"What about the sword?" Chen asked.

"Eh, for aesthetics I'd say, like the cuts on the face. Killer wanted to make sure you knew he was there." David said. As if any of the freaks around here did anything else, Drexel thought. "The, uh, blade there is stamped with a label: 'Rennington Steel'. Looks authentic, not like one of those reproductions that you see in, y'know, pawn shops and the like. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to see about getting some of those donuts those EMTs brought over. "

"Rennington? David Rennington?" Drexel grunted, as Dave left in pursuit of baked goods. "Ugh, I remember that guy. Called himself Dagger or some crap. Tried to pull a racket on some dopes a few years back dressed like some circus sideshow. Me and a couple of the guys at the station used to argue over who would win a fight between him and Catman. I always went for Catman."

"I doubt he was anywhere near here when this went down." Chen replied. "Just like Mortimer Drake wasn't anywhere near Yeager when she was murdered. I think whoever killed Mrs. Yeager killed Lisa McElroy and her family, and placed them here for us to find."

"Well, I mean that kid did say that this chick worked at Thorne Towers, but that doesn't really mean they're connected." Drexel said. "People die all the time, it's not impossible that two people would die on the same day in the same place."

"In both cases,the victim's faces were mutilated, and in both cases, evidence was found at the scene that made crude attempts at linking people to the crime. Drake was in Arkham at the time of Yeager's death, and even if he wasn't, his obsession with chivalry means he's not going to be hurting any women. Rennington loved bladed weapons, so even if he was the type to do... _this_ , he wouldn't have strangled them, and he wouldn't leave something lying around with his name on it. There's a very clear pattern developing here!"

"Maybe." Drexel muttered noncommittally. Was there really nothing to look at in this house but pictures of Jesus? The smell of death was starting to make him long for the unwashed hobos and rotting garbage of the inner city. "That doesn't tell us the how or the why, though. The perp, I say Drake you say otherwise, manages to tag the wife of one of the most powerful mobsters in Gotham. Instead of immediately attempting escape from the scene of the crime, as you would expect a murderer would want to do, he decides to kill this broad, drag her corpse across town, and then dump her with the rest of her family in the burbs. Why bother? Even the Joker wouldn't have wasted time going on tangents like that if he could just leave the girl's body at the hotel. "

"Maybe it was a message, showing how he doesn't regard us as a threat. ." Chen offered. "Listen, when when we were at Arkham, Nygma mentioned something about being a 'changed man', that he was showing us the 'brand new Edward Nygma. I think he was giving us a clue. I think he was trying to tell us that we're dealing a person who can change their appearance."

"So do you base all your leads on random sentences by lunatics, or just this one?"

"I'm open to anything that helps me solve this case, so unless you have something constructive to say I'd suggest you shut up and listen." Chen shot back. "Listen, we already knew it was a frame-up since day one. From what Batman told us and from what we know from his case history, Mortimer Drake is not violent towards women. Period. Yet from all appearances, we are supposed to believe that at the same time Drake was supposed to be in his cell at Arkham, he was walking a woman to her hotel room in full view of dozens of people and security cameras, where he proceeded to bludgeon her to death. Then, as the facts tell us, Drake just disappears; despite being in one of the busiest sections of Gotham City, despite the nature of the murder making it almost impossible that he wouldn't have some of Erica Yeager's blood on his person, he disappears, leaving only some hair to prove he had been there at all. No fingerprints, no fluid samples, just some hair. Except we _know_ that Drake wasn't there, and we _know_ he doesn't hurt women, so the evidence is wrong. Wrong murderer, wrong victim, evidence that isn't really evidence, all orchestrated to drive someone to the _wrong_ conclusion. Very deliberate, very organized."

She paused a moment to compose herself. Outside, the low murmurs of conversation and the steady rumble of automobiles served to distract one from the deafening silence of the house. Drexel decided it was in his best interest to keep quiet.

"Then Lisa McElroy came in." She continued. "Maybe she was there to clean up, maybe she was passing by and heard it going on, and decided to investigate. Whatever it was, she saw too much, and ended up losing her life because of it. This provided the killer with an entirely new face, and a way out of the building. However, that wasn't enough for them. So they somehow managed to get McElroy's body out of the building, laundry carts maybe, and found out where she lived through her personal effects. They assumed Lisa McElroy's life, they slept in her bed, ate her meals, laughed with her family, drugged them, and then killed them and mutilated their bodies. Maybe even while they were still conscious, so that the last thing these people felt before they were murdered was anger, confusion and betrayal. All so this killer wearing Lisa McElroy's face could construct another scene, implicating another costumed criminal for a murder against his M.O. Evidence leading towards the wrong conclusion.

"Now it could be I've overlooked something or I'm pulling at straws, but that's the kind of person I think we're dealing with Drexel. Whoever this person is, they're obsessed with the idea of imperfection, unstable enough to use human lives to act out his fixation, with the skills and ability to completely mimic other people's appearances. Which means that until we find this guy, everyone from the winos in the Cauldron to Mayor Lieberman and Bruce Wayne is in danger here. "

For a moment, Drexel searched for some kind of monkey wrench he could throw into her reasoning, but the knot slowly growing in the pit of his stomach told him she was probably on to something. It couldn't have been some D-list punk trying to earn some street cred, or some mob hit that would be swept under the rug in a couple weeks, could it? No, it had to be some aspiring Arkham loonie trying to make a name for himself by carving up the citizenry in new and exciting ways. Which meant that Gordon would be on everyone's case about following up on every lead and turning the city inside out so that it looked like the GCPD was doing their job when Batman finally decided to bring them in, just for someone else who wanted to play dress up. How many times had he gone through this exact same situation during his life, dealing with people like Chen who were obsessed with pushing the rock uphill? How many times had he gone through these exact same thoughts, felt the same sense of...helplessness? Emptiness? Whatever you wanted to call it, and got up the next day to do it all over again? Pushing his own rock uphill, until the day the earth opened up and swallowed this place whole. Christ, he really missed that sandwich.

"Alright alright, I don't need to hear a lecture on civic duty today." Drexel acquiesced. "Fine, I'll admit that you're probably right about this whole appearance-changing thing. But I thought we had already ruled out Clayface? No slime on the faucets and all that. As far as I know, he's the only guy in this city who could look like Shakespeare's gay brother and Marilyn Monroe in the same evening, or at least the only one that'd look convincing."

"Maybe he found out a way to dry himself out for a while. Or someone from out of town trying their luck. Or it could even be someone completely new, trying to shake up status quo. We'll have to check with the JLI embassy, they've probably got a couple of guys like this on file we can look into. Might be able to track down something on that sword too, I doubt many bladed weapons pass through town without someone knowing about it." Chen said, as she walked over to the door. Her expression, Drexel realized, was all-too-familiar to him. "Unfortunately, the major loose end from the Yeager case has been addressed, so we're flying . Hopefully our friend here was more sloppy this time around. I really don't want to wait around for another family to become a headline in the Gotham Herald tomorrow. "

"I've been living in Gotham my whole life kid. " Drexel replied, slowly following her out. He could feel a familiar fatigue creeping into his bones a deep, dull ache that had started when he was far too young . "The only Hope I know turns tricks on Amusement Mile."


	6. Persona

_(AN: Since I'm busy with other writing projects, and the fact that I've been unhappy with the direction of the story thus far, this'll probably be the last update for a while. Sorry.)_

7:36 p.m., and suddenly I am alive again. A sense of awareness, thoughts and feelings flow like a cascade of water rushing to fill in the void that I once was. I remember that I am, and I remember what my purpose is.

I turn about, taking in my surroundings with inquisitive eyes. I know this place, my mind assures me, although the me that first saw it has been shed away. Apartment, upscale, adorned with the amenities of the future as if they were talismans to usher in the next millennium. Digital clocks, VCR, personal computer. A few pictures as well, showing a young man and woman at various activities, swimming, skiing. They seem happy, and because I am alive I am filled with happiness as well. Happiness for the young couple in the picture, and happiness for the world around me.  
There's a rustling at my feet that draws my attention, and when I look down I notice that there is a man lying in the middle of the room. He is tied and bound with strong ropes, and his face, especially his nose, seems to be caked in blackened blood. He is the man from the photos, my mind tells me, but he doesn't look as he does there. His face is wrong.

"Hello." I say to him warmly.

He attempts to yell something, but it's muffled under the cloth.

"You must be Derek Reynolds." I reply. "I remember now. This is a lovely home you have here, Mr. Reynolds. Nice neighborhood, easy access to schools if you have children, close enough to the clubs if you enjoy parties, and just enough space to fill it with all the things you think you need. That is the nature of our times, isn't it? The rampant accumulation of things, lest we fall behind the herd and risk being ostracized? The holiness of excess? Devour others, that we may avoid devouring ourselves."

I step over him, walk over to his stereo. He's got The Beatles on CD, and so I put it on, letting the sounds of Day Tripper fill the room. It is transcendent, and through it I know that I am transcendent as well. Derek Reynolds tries to scream again, but it is lost in the music.

"I apologize if it seems I'm waxing philosophical today." I tell him. "Usually I'm not this chatty, but I guess this me just likes to hear myself talk. And I imagine you might have some questions, so I might as well answer them."

I crouch down, so that I can get a look at his eyes. Pupils dilated, wild with fear and confusion. Animal eyes, not human eyes. Wrong.

"What I was and who I was is gone, Mr. Derek Reynolds. Washed away in the blood, that I may be able to truly live. The newspapers and television have gifted me the name False Face, and I must admit I find myself drawn to it. I was perfectly content with having my work stand on its own you understand, as all great works must, but Gotham City loves for its killers to have an identity, don't they? A brand that can be put on T-shirts, sold in books and made-for-TV movies, like it were Sony or McDonald's. As if it were normal? Disgusting I know, but if one must make sacrifices for their work, then they should be as unobtrusive as possible, am I right?

The world is an ugly, filthy place Mr. Reynolds, rotten to the core with contradictions. Countries that cry for peace as they rape and murder women and children. Leaders that decry blasphemy as they indulge themselves in it behind closed doors. The richest countries on Earth where the people pass by the poor and the starving without a second thought. And we are told to ignore it, that this is the way life is and that we should just accept it. Accept cognitive dissonance on a global scale, accept that our world is dying from a moral cancer, because it's just too hard to do anything about it. Can you believe that?"

I pause, overcome with emotion. Mr. Reynolds seems to be struggling with his bonds, but he won't be able to remove them anytime soon.

"It's wrong, Derek. The people of this world must be confronted with the collective hypocrisy that we have all decided to take part in, forced to change, even if they must be dragged kicking and screaming to the truth. That is my purpose in this world, and those who I choose to help me in this duty are transformed into something beyond human. They become symbols, representations of our decay, that others may look upon them and finally start to remember what it is to be human beings again. Which brings us here, Mr. Reynolds."

I stand up now, walking over to the couch, a shiny, leathery thing that would stick to your back on a hot day. Sitting on it are several red canisters, one of which I pick up and shake gingerly. Filled to the brim.

"You might be wondering why I have decided to take on the likeness of your wife, Clarissa. Unfortunately, the nature of my work demands that I have a disguise to avoid those who would persecute me, so I was forced to take her life. Don't worry though, finding a way to commemorate her sacrifice was easy. I mean, what better use for a vegetarian than making a couple of steaks, right? I put the leftovers in the fridge, in case the boys at the GCPD come over later."

I'm not confident in my bomb- making abilities, but as I look at the device in my hands, I feel full of confidence. This will do the job just fine.

"As for you, Mr. Reynolds, you're going to be a part of something far more grandiose than your wife." I open one of the canisters, pouring some of the foul-smelling onto him. "You see, when the rescue workers and firefighters are picking through the wreckage of this building, determining the cause for this disastrous event, they will find two things. The first, of course, being what remains of you, and the second being one of the original models of Dr. Victor Fries' ice gun, perfectly preserved in a blanket of fire retardant material. It will be my most spectacular statement yet Mr. Reynolds, one that captures the violence and destruction that humanity brings upon itself. Gotham City will finally learn the error of its ways, and so the rest of the world will follow. And if they don't, well, I suppose I'll have to try something. Shooting the Mayor three times in the head with Harvey Dent's gun, maybe? The mind boggles at the array of choices, my friend."

I press a few buttons on my creation, then place it on top of the Reynolds' large television set. The ticking of the timer is sharp, noticeable, but then it was built to be so.

"Anyway, I've got to be going now, Mr. Reynolds. I've set the bomb here for around 10 minutes, so use that time however you wish. Praying to your gods, introspection, et cetera. Also, if you do end up getting cold feet and attempt to leave your fellow men to ignorance, please note that the sedatives that I injected into your body will make escape pretty much impossible. Not that I'm casting doubt on your dedication Derek, but one never knows how other people will react to stress, am I right? Goodbye, Mr. Reynolds, your death was not in vain."

I leave him there, wriggling on the ground like a wounded animal. Already his name and face is beginning to fade from my mind, returning to the subconscious wellspring that contained the true me. The same wellspring that will show me the next face to take, the next task that needs to be performed.

I can't wait until I'm alive again.


	7. The Bat

_(AN: You can thank (or blame) the last chapter for the relative quickness of this one. Inspiration struck, I guess.)_

Whatever misgivings James Gordon had about the efficacy of his job, whatever feelings of helplessness that seemed to suddenly swell up deep in his chest in those quiet moments before he fell asleep, there was no doubting his dedication towards his position as Police Commissioner. He got in at the start of the day, left long after the sun went down (which in Gotham always seemed to come sooner than other places), only taking a break when he decided to eat or call Barbara. Even then it wasn't unheard of to see him thumbing through case files and officer report as he did so, smoke rising from his pipe as if he were trying to masquerade as a steam engine. He never seemed to run of things to do either, curious onlookers were known to remark, though whether that was a good or a bad thing was yet to be decided.

So it was that night. Gordon in his office, pecking away on the keyboard of GCPD's new computer (generously provided by CompuTech by way of the Wayne Foundation), a cup of dark coffee slowly cooling next to him. Like most police officers of his generation, Gordon was a man more interested in good old fashioned detective work than fiddling with machines, pounding the beat, digging up witness, etc., but he wasn't so stuck in his ways that he couldn't utilize a useful tool when he had it. Still, his stumbling attempts at speed-typing took up so much of his attention that he didn't notice the slight chill that came from an open window.

"Busy night Jim?"

Gordon looked up and suddenly it felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders: Batman and Robin, in the flesh. They seemed a bit different from last he saw them, Batman seemed to have changed into a fully black costume (minus the yellow symbol on his chest) and Robin was now sporting intense orange streaks in his otherwise jet black hair, but it was them, without a doubt. Things were on their way to being normal again, or at least as normal as they got around here.

"Same old same old," Gordon replied gruffly, finally taking a sip of his coffee, "so where have you been?"

"Europe, with the League. A sorcerer was attempting to return the entire continent to a preindustrial period using an anti-technology barrier. I only just got back a few hours ago."

"And I was stuck at home, because _someone_ doesn't want me to have any fun." Robin chimed in.

Gordon had been around the Dark Knight long enough to recognize that slight tightening of the jaw was a sign of annoyance. "I've told you before Robin, you don't have the experience to work solo."

"And the only way I'll learn to work solo is if I never work without a partner, right? Makes total sense."

"Well, it's probably for the best you've haven't been out here kid," Gordon said, sliding the reports over to Batman, "it's been pretty dangerous out there. Freeze, Joker, Ivy, and now this new False Face creep. I tell ya, there must be something in the water."

"I've tested it. There isn't." Batman replied bluntly, as he scanned the reports. "What do we know about this False Face?"

"Like why he decided we needed another bad guy in this town with the word 'face' in his name?" Robin added.

"Not too much. We know he started off murdering mob wives and has upgraded to firebombing apartments. We know that he likes to leave little mementos of other criminals at the scene, criminals who represent the opposite of how the killings took place. Freeze burning folks to death and so on. And...we know that this guy has been walking the streets of one of the busiest cities in the world and we've got no witnesses, no I.D., no common thread between the victims aside from the maid at Yeager's apartment. Hell, we don't even know if they are a 'he' or not. Either this False Face is great at disguises or he's some kind of, what do you call 'em, metahuman."

"Hey, you gotta keep up with the times." Robin remarked. Colorful pajamas and a crazy gimmick only gets you so far these days."

"Where is False Face getting these mementos? Police evidence?" Batman asked.

"We think so, which I think lends credence to the metahuman theory. I mean my people may not be the world's greatest detectives, but I figure they're going recognize a guy in a mask when they see him. We've doubled security, but until we finish taking inventory we have no idea what all has been taken."

"Hnn. " The vigilante grunted. Which, to the people who knew him, was almost an entire conversation.

"You got any ideas, B-man?" The Boy Wonder asked.

"A few. Freeze is going to have to have take priority though, if he's reached the point where he needs to ransom the city then he won't hesitate to pull the trigger if he thinks it'll make us fall in line, and I doubt he'll restrict himself to the dockyards. Not too many crooks deal in the kind of technology used in the Fries' cryogenic though, so we should be able to get a handle on where he's hiding out. Once the Joker finds out I'm back in town, he's no doubt going to start ramping up his activities, so that will have to be next. Then Ivy and this False Face… I'm going to stop them Jim, but it's going to take some time." He paused, then glanced at Robin. "Don't call me that."

"You're already going above and beyond the call of duty, so don't worry about it." Gordon replied, waving the comment away. "We here at the GCPD might not be the world's greatest detectives, but we get by. Just do what you can."

"We will, thanks Jim." Batman turned, and headed towards the opened window. "Let's go Robin."

"Aye cap'n."

"Before you go," Gordon said, "you should know that if you're going to get involved with the False Face case, keep an eye out for Nygma."

Batman paused, and when he turned his feelings of extreme annoyance was obvious even through the cowl. "What about Nygma?"

"He _claims_ he's gone legit as a private investigator, and for one reason or another he's stuck himself to this case like a leech. Managed to turn it into a media circus. Now we're getting calls every half hour from people who think the bus driver or the Chinese takeout guy is some kind of shapeshifting Ted Bundy."

"We _do_ have the nation's scariest bus drivers..." Robin said.

"Couldn't you arrest him? Seems like a pretty clear case of impeding a police investigation."

"Yeah, but you know how popular the Godfrey crowd still is in the Mayor's circle. If I brought him in, they'd probably say I was unduly harassing him or negatively impacting his mental or something like that, you know how they are. I don't know if he knows anything important, but I figure you might want to keep an eye on him. He's got an office by the Ventriloquist's bar, I forget the name of it."

"It's the Riddler's M.O. to know a lot about things that aren't important, but we'll keep it in mind. Good night Jim."

"Yeah, good night." Gordon said, as he turned and walked back to his desk. "You take care of yourself too, kid."

"Hey, don't worry about me Commish, I'm too cool to die." Robin replied.

Gordon thought about saying about how he didn't like the idea of a child being so cavalier about death, but he knew that they were already gone. Besides, this was Gotham, a town obsessed beyond all reason in its frantic race to the bottom. Kids didn't have much time to be kids before the real world came knocking on their door.

All of a sudden The Commissioner felt very hungry and very tired. He switched off his computer, grabbed his coat off the rack, and headed home, with thoughts of lost time and Chinese take out in his mind.

"So you're giving up?"

This was the first time that Oswald Cobblepot, otherwise known as the Penguin, had visited the office of his friend Edward Nygma, formerly known as The Riddler. Perhaps office was too strong a word, the seemingly random collection of electronic devices, discarded food containers, piles of books (Carl Jung, Michel Foucault, Immanuel Kant, and so on) would like it more to a small town flea market than anything resembling the business of a private investigator. This wasn't all that surprising, Nygma had been an unorganized fellow as long as he had known him, and Oswald had long since come to terms with it. Well, as close as you could get to terms when you were a gentleman of high breeding sitting on an inexpensive wooden chair in the middle of a room full of garbage.

Nygma was sitting at his desk, scribbling away in a large brown notebook. Occasionally he would pause, for what reason no one but him surmise, grabbing another notebook and making a few quick notes in it, and then go straight back to the original book. Despite this seemingly intensive task however, he always managed to give a prompt response and never seemed to lose the thread of conversation.

"I'm not 'giving up' on anything, Oswald." Nygma replied. "I'm just temporarily redirecting my energies to other areas of interest. As a man of supreme intellect it is my duty to the world to contribute to its collective knowledge as much as possible, after all."

"Uh huh." Oswald replied, though he clearly didn't accept it. "Areas such as what, exactly?"

"Well this notebook contains Cyrus Pinkney's relationship with The Order of the Owl, which was believed to be a rival of sorts to the British-based Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, and it's affect on his work. Cyrus Pinkney of course architect chiefly responsible for most of the reconstruction of downtown Gotham after the Crisis of-"

"I'm aware of who Cyrus Pinkney was."

"Of course, of course. Anyway, this notepad contains a collection of 50 recipes that each include at least one type of bean, the red notebook is a translation of Death of a Salesman into Latin, and the green is my attempt at combining crossword puzzles and freeform poetry. Not my best work mind you, but I'm hoping the genius will still shine through."

"Far be it from me to claim knowledge of how murder investigations work, but isn't time of the essence? Don't want the trail to run cold, and all that."

"Perhaps for those penny-ante constables at the GCPD, but you're talking to Edward Nygma. No matter how long the case goes on, I can pick it out of the air like a toad does a fly."

"But you've already accepted money from a client. Expediency tends to be a priority when money is involved, at least it has been when it was my money."

"'Expediency', bah!" Nygma spat, finally closing his notebook. "If you want fast then you go to Big Belly Burger and choke down one of their lukewarm grease balls. I provide a premium service Oswald, no bumbling cops, no freaks dressed as rodents, and such a service requires time and patience. My clients understand that and they know that when I'm on the case that said case will be fully and completely solved. No unanswered questions, no lingering doubts, solved. Finished. Wrapped up."

Nygma had announced it with a tone of finality, and indeed it seemed to hang in the air of that crowded room. Outside, the sound of drunken patrons of the local bars and other fronts for organized crime could be heard. Laughter, shouting, vomiting in the streets. Life sounds, Oswald noted.

"So you're giving up the case then?" Oswald said again.

"It's such a damn chore Oswald!" Nygma shouted, shaking his hands in exasperation. "When you trying to complete a puzzle, or planning a crime, everything is laid out. All the pieces, the building layout, the guard patrol patterns, everything, and all you need to do is push or pull all those pieces until the answer pops into existence. But this detective work, scraping around for clues, listening to the sob stories of the barely coherent, it's _so_ boring. A supreme waste of my valuable time."

"That's probably why they call it detective work and not a detective vacation." Oswald replied.

"It's beneath me to go begging for scraps of information hoping to find a lead, you know that. Besides, even if I felt like playing Hamilton Drew, where's the fun in a mystery when you already know the answer?"

"You know who this killer is then?" Oswald asked, eyebrow already raised in doubt.

"Of course! It's blatantly obvious that it's been Karlo the whole time, even Gordon and his bully boys have probably figured it out by now."

"I seem to recall you saying that Clayface was most definitely _not_ the killer a few days ago."

"Merely a diversionary tactic to throw the competition of the scent, but it's embarrassingly obvious when one of sufficient intelligence looks at the facts. One, the killer is a metahuman, which as we know is not uncommon in Gotham. Specifically he is a shapeshifter, one with such a degree of control that he is able to perfectly mimic the appearance of another person while leaving no trace of his presence, fingerprints, hair, shoeprints or otherwise. This would also explain how he managed to leave with the maid's body without being detected, he could have wrapped around her body like an overcoat and walked her out of the building.

"Secondly, the killer is a great actor. Disguising himself as a pompous oaf like the Cavalier is no big feat, but to completely fool the family and loved ones of several people suggests a talent for improvisation and method acting. Thirdly, the killer's activities suggest a disturbing level of brutality and an obsession with symbolism, what you might call a 'flair for the dramatic'. Basil Karlo is a shapeshifter (by all accounts an incredibly competent one), he is an actor of no small talent, and we know from The Terror Massacre that he is no stranger to exacting visceral vengeance on those he believes have wronged him. As it is highly doubtful that _another_ shape shifting metahuman would come to Gotham and _just_ so happen to become a serial killer at the same time that Basil Karlo has currently escaped from Arkham Asylum, then it is logical to assume that Basil Karlo is the False Face killer."

"You certainly make a compelling argument." Oswald admitted. "Why would he go the trouble though? He's a murderer sure, but I've never heard of him using something like bombs before."

"Who knows? Who cares? The man is insane, who knows what kind of thoughts run through their heads." Nygma said, with a flippant wave of his hand.

"As the pot said to the kettle, eh Edward?" Came the reply, a wet, gurgling voice that seemed to come from nowhere and yet, as always seemed to be the case with these kinds of things, also seemed to come from everywhere at once.

With that voice came the stuff, a viscous brown ooze that seemed to flow wildly from any open space in the room, spaces in the floorboards, the crack in the ceiling and so on. Gallons, liters of the stuff, and as it reached the ground it moved, with a quick and obvious purpose, in front of where Nygma (and Oswald) now stood, adding itself into a rapidly growing mass of congealed matter. Growing, expanding, and as the oozing thing became larger and larger features began to appear. Large slimy protuberances that could have been considered arms, pale black spheres that seemed to be the eyes, a cavernous, toothless maw of a mouth that was more suited on some great catfish than anything trying to pass itself off as a human. If it was trying however, it was a failure.

By the time it had finally stopped growing, the thing had reached a height of at least 9 feet tall and several feet wide, looming over the two men like some great wave, waiting to wash over them and drag them both into some hellish oblivion. Yes, a wave was an appropriate word for it, as even though the being had stopped _growing_ , it never appeared to stop _moving_ , shifting and undulating like a muddy river. It was especially noticeable in those pale black spheres that had to be eyes, as the ooze seemed to twist around them like tiny whirlpools. An aesthetic choice, or a necessary function of the biology? Neither man knew the answer.

"Now, gentlemen." said Basil Karlo, the first and most terrible of those who had called themselves Clayface, as those pale black spheres settled on the forms of Edward Nygma and Oswald Cobblepot and that terrible mouth twisted into a vast smirk. "Have about we have a little talk about this False Face?"


End file.
